Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 September 1898 — MR. DOOLEY. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

MR. DOOLEY.

Sermon on Anarchists. “ ’Tis ha-ard bein’ a king these days,” said Mr. Dooley. “Manny’s th’ man on a throne wishes his father’d brought him up a cooper, what with wages bein’ docked be an’ ragin’ arnychists r-run-nin’ wild with dinuymite bombs undher their ar-rrns an’ carvin’ knives in their pockets. “Onaisy, as Hogan says, is th’ head that wears a crowen. They’se other heads thaT’re onaisy, too, but ye don’t hear iv tfaim. But a man gr-rows up in wan iv thim furrin’ counthries an’ he’s thraihed f’r to be a king. Hivin may’ve intinded him f’r a dooce or a jack at th’ most, but he has to follow th’ same line as his father. ’Tis like pawnbrokin’ that way. Ye niver heerd iv a pawnbroker's son doin’ annything else. Wanst a king, always a king. Other men’s sons may pack away a shirt in a thrunk an’ go out into th' worruld, brakin’ on a freight or ladin’ Indyanny bankers up to a shell game. But a man that's headed f’r a throne can’t r-run away. He’s got to take th’ job. If he kicks they blindfold him an’ back him in. Whin he goes-on watch he’s cinched. He can’t ask f’r his

time at th’ end iv th’ week an’ lave. He pays himsilf. He can't stlirike, because he’d have to ordher out th’ polis to subjoo himsilf. He can’t go to th’ boss an’ say: ‘Me hours is too long an’ th’ wurruk is tajious. Give me me pay-check.’ He has no boss. A man can’t be indipindint onIcss he has a boss. ’Tis thrue. So he takes th’ place, an’ th’ chances ar-re he’s ,th’ biggest omndhon in th’ wurruld, an’ knows no more about v-runnin’ a counthry thin I know about ladin’ an orchesthry. An’ if he don't do annything he’s a dummy, an’ if he does do annything he’s crazy, an’ whin he dies his foreman says* ‘Sure, ’tis th’ divvle’s own time I had savin’ that bosthoon fr’m desthroyin’ himsilf. If it wasn’t f’r me th’ poor thing’d have closed down the wurruks an’ gone to th’ far-rm long ago.’ An’ wan day whin he’s takin’ th’ air, p'raps, along comes an Eyetalyan an' says he: ‘Ar-re ye a king?’ ‘That’s my name,’ says his majesty. ‘Bether dead,' says th’ Eyetalyan, an' they'se a scramble, an’ another king goes over th’ long r-road. “I don’t know much about arnychists. We had thim here—wanst. They wint again polismon mostly. Mebbe that’s because polismen’s th’ nearest things to kings they cud find. But, annyhow, I sometimes think I know why they’re arnychists somewhere an’ why they ain’t in other places. It rayminds me iv what happened wanst in me cousin Terence’s fnm’ly. They was livin’ down near Haley’s slough in wan iv ol’ Doherty’s houses, not Doherty that ye know, th’ j’iuer, a good man whin he don’t dhrink. No, ’twas an ol' grouch iv a man be the name of Malachi Doherty that used to keep five-day notices in his thrunk an’ ownded his own privit jistloe iv th’ peace. Me cousin Terence was as dacint a man as iver shoed a hor-rse an’ his wife was a good woman, too, though I niver took much to th’ Dolans. Fr’m Tipperary they was an’ too handy throwin’ things at ye. An’ he had a nieefam’ly growin’ up, an* I niver knowed peopie that lived together more quite an’ amyablo. * 'Twas good Fr to see thim settin’ ar-roun’ ft’ parlor, Terence spellin’ out th’ newspaper an’ his good woman mendin’ socks an’ Honoria playin’ th’ ‘Vale iv Avoca’ on th’ pianny an’ the kids r-rowlin’ on th’ flure. “But wan day it happened that that whole fam’ly begun to rusp on wan another. Honoria’d sot down at th’ pianny an’ th’ ol’ man’d growl: ‘F’r th’ love iv th’ saints, close down that hurdy-gurdy an’ lave a man injye his headache.’ An’ th’ good woman scolded Terence an’ th’ kids pulled th’ leg fr’m undher th’ stove, an’ whin th’ big boy Mike come home fr’m Omaha he found none iv thim speakin’ to th’ others. He cud do nawthin’, an’ he wint f’r Father Kelly. Father Kelly sniffed th’ air whin he come in an’ says he: ‘Terence, what’s th’ mather with ye’er catch basin?’ ‘I dinnaw,’ growled Terence. ‘Well,’ says Father Kelly, ‘ye put on ye’er hat this minyit an’ go out f’r a plumber,’ he says. ‘l’m pot needed here,’ he says. ‘Ye’er sowls ar-re ail r-right,’ he says, ‘but We’er systems ar-re out of ordher,’ he sfcys. ‘Fetch iu a plumber,’ he says, ‘whilst I goes down to Doherty an’ make him think his lease on th’ hereafter is defective,’ he says, “Ye’er r-right,” said Mr. Hennessy, who had followed the argument dimly. “Iv ooorse I’m r-right,” said Mr. Dooley. .“What they need over there in furrin’ counthries is not a priest, but a plumber. ’Tis no good prayin’ agin nraychists. Hinnissy. Arnychists is sewer gus.”—Chicago Journal.