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They are eight thousan' iv thim islands, with a popylation iv wan hundherd millyon naked savages; an' me bedroom's crowded now with me an' th' bed. How can I take thim in, an' how on earth am I goin' to cover th' nakedness iv thim savages with me wan shoot iv clothes? An' yet 'twud break me heart to think iv givin' people I niver see or heerd tell iv back to other people I don't know.
"There's wan thing about th' Irish iv this town," said Mr. Dooley. "The police?" said Mr. McKenna. "No," said the philosopher. "But they give picnics that does bate all. Be hivins, if Ireland cud be freed be a picnic, it 'd not on'y be free to-day, but an impire, begorra, with Tim Haley, th' Banthry man, evictin' Lord Salisbury fr'm his houldin'. 'Twud that.
'Sir, says Mack, 'Goold Bonds, th' pride iv th' administhration, has had a fit, he says. ''Twud br-reak our hear-rts to lose our little pet, he says. 'Go, he says, 'an' take such measures as ye'er noble healin' ar-rt sug-gists, he says; 'an' may th' prayers iv an agonized foster-parent go with ye, he says.
An' 'tis tin to wan, an' more thin that, that th' town humorist has named him th' orange-peel hero, an' he'll go to his grave with that name. Th' war is over an' th' state iv war exists. If ye saw a man fall fr'm th' top iv a tin-story buildin' 'twud startle ye, wanst. If it happened again, 'twud surprise ye.
'Twas a shame to give th' comp'nies what they wanted, but th' five thousan' was a lot iv money. 'Twud lift th' morgedge. 'Twud clane up th' notes on th' new conthract. 'Twud buy a new dhress f'r Mrs. Dochney. He begun to feel sorrowful f'r th' widdies an' orphans. 'Poor things! says he to himsilf, says he. 'Poor things, how they must suffer! he says; 'an' I need th' money.
"No,'tis no aisy job bein' a candydate, an' 'twud be no easy job if th' game iv photygraphs was th' on'y wan th' candydates had to play. Willum Jennings Bryan is photygraphed smilin' back at his smilin' corn fields, in a pair iv blue overalls with a scythe in his hand borrid fr'm th' company that's playin' 'Th' Ol' Homestead, at th' Lincoln Gran' Opry House.
An' as fer th' tin cup he'd dhrink from a batthered tomaty can or a lady's shlipper, an' rasp th' dhregs from his t'roat wid a cur-rse or a song, as besht fitted th' toime or th' place he was in." The old man began to pour out the liquor: "Say phwin," he cried, "an' Oi've yit to see th' McKim 'twud hurry th' wor-rd."
"Go on wid ye, corp'ril," sez she. "You're a flirrt." "On me sowl I'm not," sez I. "Then you're a cruel handsome man, an' that's worse," sez she, heaving big sighs an' lookin' crossways. "You know your own mind," sez I. "'Twud be better for me if I did not," she sez. "There's a dale to be said on both sides av that," sez I, unthinkin'.
'Haven't I sint me own son into ye'er accursed but liberty-lovin' counthry, he says. 'As f'r Mack, I assure ye he's hear-rtbroken over th' tur-rn affairs have taken, he says. 'Early in th' war he wrote to Lord Salisberry, sayin' he hoped 'twud not be continyued to iliction day, an' Salisberry give him a gruff response. Tur-rned him down, though both ar-re Anglo-Saxons, he says.
He says to himsilf, he says: 'They'se nawthin' f'r me to do, he says, 'but load up me little lyddite cannon with th' green goods, he says, 'an' set here at the organ, he says, 'pull out th' stops an' paint th' town iv Pretoria green, he says. 'But, he says, 'on sicond thought, suppose th' inimy shud hand it back to me, he says. 'Twud be oncomfortable, he says.
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