"''Tis a cold night out,' says I.
"'Well,' he says, th' dear man, 'ye may. On'y,' he says, ''tis Lent.'
"'Yes,' says I.
"'Well, thin,' he says, 'by ye'er lave I'll take but half a lump ivsugar in mine,' he says."
THE QUICK AND THE DEAD.
Mr. Dooley and Mr. McKenna sat outside the ample door of the littleliquor store, the evening being hot, and wrapped their legs around thechair, and their lips around two especially long and soothing drinks.They talked politics and religion, the people up and down the street,the chances of Murphy, the tinsmith, getting on the force, and a greatdeal about the weather. A woman in white started Mr. McKenna's nerves.
"Glory be, I thought it was a ghost!" said Mr. McKenna, whereupon theconversation drifted to those interesting phenomena. Mr. Dooley askedMr. McKenna if he had ever seen one. Mr. McKenna replied that hehadn't, and didn't want to. Had Mr. Dooley? "No," said thephilosopher, "I niver did; an' it's always been more thin sthrange tome that annywan shud come back afther he'd been stuck in a crate fivefeet deep, with a ton iv mud upon him. 'Tis onplisint iv thim,annyhow, not to say ongrateful. F'r mesilf, if I was wanst pushed off,an' they'd waked me kindly, an' had a solemn rayqueem high mass f'rme, an' a funeral with Roddey's Hi-beryan band, an' th' A-ho-aitches,I have too much pride to come back f'r an encore. I wud so, Jawn. Whina man's dead, he ought to make th' best iv a bad job, an' not bethrapsin' around, lookin' f'r throuble among his own kind.
"No, I niver see wan, but I know there are such things; f'r twintyyears ago all th' road was talkin' about how Flaherty, th' tailor,laid out th' ghost iv Tim O'Grady. O'Grady was a big sthrappin'Connock man, as wide across th' shoulders as a freight car. He was aplastherer be thrade whin wages was high, an' O'Grady was rowlin' inwealth. Ivry Sundah ye'd see him, with his horse an' buggy an' hisgoold watch an' chain, in front iv th' Sullivans' house, waitin' f'rMary Ann Sullivan to go f'r a buggy ride with him over to McAllisterPlace; an' he fin'lly married her, again th' wishes iv Flaherty, whotook to histin' in dhrinks, an' missed his jooty, an' was a scandal inth' parish f'r six months.
"O'Grady didn't improve with mathrimony, but got to lanin' again th'ol' stuff, an' walkin' up an' down th' sidewalk in his shirt-sleeves,with his thumbs stuck in his vest, an' his little pipe turned upsidedown; an', whin he see Flaherty, 'twas his custom to run him up analley, so that th' little tailor man niver had a minyit iv peace. Ivrywan supposed he lived in a three most iv th' time, to be out iv th'way iv O'Grady.
"Well, wan day O'Grady he seen Flaherty walkin' down th' sthreet witha pair iv lavender pants f'r Willum Joyce to wear to th' Ogden Grovepicnic, an' thried to heave a brick at him. He lost his balance, an'fell fr'm th' scaffoldin' he was wurrukin' on; an' th' last wurruds hesaid was, 'Did I get him or didn't I?' Mrs. O'Grady said it was th'will iv Gawd; an' he was burrid at Calvary with a funeral iv eightyhacks, an' a great manny people in their own buggies. Dorsey, th'conthractor, was there with his wife. He thought th' wurruld an' alliv O'Grady.
"Wan year aftherward Flaherty begun makin' up to Mrs. O'Grady; an'ivry wan in th' parish seen it, an' was glad iv it, an' said it wasscandalous. How it iver got out to O'Grady's pew in th' burryin'ground, I'll niver tell ye, an' th' Lord knows; but wan evenin' th'ghost iv O'Grady come back. Flaherty was settin' in th' parlor,smokin' a seegar, with O'Grady's slippers on his feet, whin th' spookcome in in th' mos' natural way in the wurruld, kickin' th' dog. 'Whatar-re ye doin' here, ye little farryer iv pants?' he says. Mrs.O'Grady was f'r faintin'; but O'Flaherty he says, says he: 'Be quite,'he says, 'I'll dale with him.' Thin to th' ghost: 'Have ye paid th'rint here, ye big ape?' he says. 'What d'ye mane be comin' back, whinth' landlord ain't heerd fr'm ye f'r a year?' he says. Well, O'Grady'sghost was that surprised he cud hardly speak. 'Ye ought to havebetther manners thin insultin' th' dead,' he says. 'Ye ought to havebetther manners thin to be lavin' ye'er coffin at this hour iv th'night, an' breakin' in on dacint people,' says Flaherty. 'What gooddoes it do to have rayqueem masses f'r th' raypose iv th' like ivyou,' he says, 'that doesn't know his place?' he says. "I'm masther ivthis house,' says th' ghost. 'Not on ye'er life,' says Flaherty. 'Getout iv here, or I'll make th' ghost iv a ghost out iv ye. I can lickanny dead man that iver lived,' he said.
"With that th' ghost iv O'Grady made a pass at him, an' they clinchedan' rowled on th' flure. Now a ghost is no aisy mark f'r anny man, an'O'Grady's ghost was as sthrong as a cow. It had Flaherty down on th'flure an' was feedin' him with a book they call th' 'ChristyanMartyrs,' whin Mrs. O'Grady put a bottle in Flaherty's hands. 'What'sthis?' says Flaherty. 'Howly wather,' says Mrs. O'Grady. 'Sprinkle iton him,' says Mrs. O'Grady. 'Woman,' says th' tailor between th'chapter iv th' book, 'this is no time f'r miracles,' he says. An' hegive O'Grady's ghost a treminjous wallop on th' head. Now, whether itwas th' wather or th' wallop, I'll not tell ye; but, annyhow, th'ghost give wan yell an' disappeared. An' th' very next Sundah, whinFather Kelly wint into th' pulpit at th' gospel, he read th' names ivRoger Kickham Flaherty an' Mary Ann O'Grady."
"Did the ghost ever come back?" asked Mr. McKenna.
"Niver," said Mr. Dooley. "Wanst was enough. But, mind ye, I'd hate tohave been wan iv th' other ghosts th' night O'Grady got home fr'm th'visit to O'Flaherty's. There might be ghosts that cud stand him offwith th' gloves, but in a round an' tumble fight he cud lick a St.Patrick's Day procession iv thim."
THE SOFT SPOT.
"Anny more cyclone news?" Mr. Dooley asked Mr. McKenna, as he came inwith a copy of an extra paper in his hand.
"Nothing much," Mr. McKenna responded. "This paper says the angel ofdeath has give up riding on the whirlwind."
"Tis betther so," said Mr. Dooley: "a bicycle is more satisfactory f'ra steady thing. But, faith, 'tis no jokin' matter. May th' Lordforgive me f'r makin' light iv it! Jawn, whin I read about thim poorpeople down in St. Looey, sthruck be th' wrath iv Hivin' without morewarnin' thin a man gets in a Polock church fight an' swept to theirgraves be th' hundherds, me heart ached in me.
"But they'se always some compinsation in th' likes iv this. To see th'wurruld as it r-runs along in its ordinrey coorse, with ivry manseemin' to be lookin' f'r th' best iv it an' carryin' a little hammerf'r his fellow-suff'rers, ye'd think what Hinnissy calls th' springsiv human sympathy was as dhry in th' breast as a bricklayer's boot ina box iv mortar. But let annything happen like this, an' men ye'dsuspect iv goin' round with a cold chisel liftin' name-plates off ivcoffins comes to th' front with their lips full iv comfort an'kindliness an', what's more to th' point, their hands full iv coin.
"Years ago there used to be a man be th' name iv O'Brien--no relationiv th' sinitor--lived down be th' dumps. He was well off, an' had quitwur-rkin' f'r a living. Well, whether he'd been disappointed in loveor just naturally had a kick up to him again th' wurruld I niver knew;but this here ol' la-ad put in his time from morn till night handin'out contimpt an' hathred to all mankind. No wan was harder to rentfr'm. He had some houses near Halsted Sthreet, an' I've see himservin' five days' notices on his tenants whin' th' weather was thatcold ye cudden't see th' inside iv th' furnace-rooms at th' mill f'rth' frost on th' window. Of all th' landlords on earth, th' Lorddeliver me fr'm an' Irish wan. Whether 'tis that fr'm niver holdin'anny land in th' ol' counthry they put too high a fondness on theirplaces whin they get a lot or two over here, I don't know; but they'requicker with th' constable thin anny others. I've seen men, that 'ddivide their last cint with ye pay night, as hard, whin it come togather in th' rent f'r two rooms in th' rear, as if they was an Irishpeer's agents; an' O'Brien had no such start iv binivolence to go on.He niver seemed to pass th' poor-box in church without wantin' tobreak into it. He charged cint per cint whin Casey, th' plumber,buried his wife an' borrid money f'r th' funeral expenses. I see himwanst chasin' th' agent iv th' Saint Vincent de Pauls down th' roadf'r darin' to ask him f'r a contribution. To look at his har-rsh redface, as he sat at his window markin' up his accounts, ye'd know hewas hard in th' bit an' heavy in th' hand. An' so he was,--as
hard an'heavy as anny man I iver seen in all me born days.
"Well, Peter O'Brien had lived on long enough to have th' pious cursesiv th' entire parish, whin th' fire broke out, th' second fire ivsivinty-four, whin th' damage was tin or twinty millions iv dollarsan' I lost a bull terrier be th' name iv Robert Immitt, r-runnin'afther th' ingines. O'Brien disappeared fr'm th' r-road durin' th'fire,--he had some property on th' South Side,--an' wasn't seen orheerd tell iv f'r a day. Th' nex' mornin' th' rayport come in that hewas seen walkin' over th' red bridge with a baby in his arms. 'Glorybe!' says I: 'is th' man goin' to add canniballing to his othercrimes?' Sure enough, as I sthud in th' dureway, along come O'Brien,with his hands scalded, his eyebrows gone, an' most iv his clothestore fr'm his back, but silent an' grim as iver, with a mite iv a girlheld tight to his breast, an' her fast asleep.
"He had a house back iv my place,--he ownded th' fifty feet frontin'on Grove Sthreet, bought it fr'm a man named Grogan,--an' 'twasrinted be a widdy lady be th' name iv Sullivan, wife iv a bricklayeriv th' same name. He was sthridin' into th' Widow Sullivan's house;an' says he, 'Mistress Sullivan,' he says. 'Yes,' says she, in athremble, knottin' her apron in her hands an' standin' in front iv herown little wans, 'what can I do f'r ye?' she says. 'Th' rent's not duetill to-morrow.' 'I very well know that,' he says; 'an' I want ye totake care iv this wan', he says. 'An' I'll pay ye f'r ye'er throuble,'he says.
"We niver knew where he got th' child: he niver told annywan. DocthorCasey said he was badly burnt about th' head an' hands. He testifiedto it in a suit he brought again O'Brien f'r curin' him. F'r th' manO'Brien, instead iv rayformin' like they do in th' play, was a longsight meaner afther he done this wan thing thin iver befure. If he wastight-fisted wanst, he was as close now as calcimine on arough-finished wall. He put his tinints out in th' cold without mercy,he kicked blind beggars fr'm th' dure, an' on his dyin'-bed he come asnear bein' left be raison iv his thryin' to bargain with th' good manf'r th' rayqueems as annywan ye iver see. But he raised th' littlegirl; an' I sometimes think that, whin they count up th' cash, they'lllet O'Brien off with a character f'r that wan thing, though there'ssome pretty hard tabs again him.
"They ain't much point in what I've told ye more thin this,--thatbeneath ivry man's outside coat there lies some good feelin'. We ain'tas bad as we make ourselves out. We've been stringin' ropes across th'sthreet f'r th' people iv Saint Looey f'r thirty years an' handin'thim bricks fr'm th' chimbleys whiniver we got a chance, but we'veon'y got wurruds an' loose change f'r thim whin th' hard times comes."
"Yes," said Mr. McKenna, "I see even the aldhermen has come to thefront, offering relief."
"Well," said Mr. Dooley, thoughtfully, "I on'y hope they won't go toSaint Looey to disthri-bute it thimsilves. That would be a long sightworse thin th' cyclone."
THE IRISHMAN ABROAD.
Mr. Dooley laid down his morning paper, and looked thoughtfully at thechandeliers.
"Taaffe," he said musingly,--"Taaffe--where th' divvle? Th' name'sfamiliar."
"He lives in the Nineteenth," said Mr. McKenna. "If I remember right,he has a boy on th' force."
"Goowan," said Mr. Dooley, "with ye'er nineteenth wa-ards. Th' TaaffeI mane is in Austhria. Where in all, where in all? No: yes, by gar, Ihave it. A-ha!
"But cur-rsed be th' day, Whin Lord Taaffe grew faint-hearted An sthud not n'r cha-arged, But in panic depa-arted."
"D'ye mind it,--th' pome by Joyce? No, not Bill Joyce. Joyce, th' Irishpote that wrote th' pome about th' wa-ars whin me people raysistedCromwell, while yours was carryin' turf on their backs to make firesfor th' crool invader, as Finerty says whin th' sub-scriptions r-runslow. 'Tis th' same name, a good ol' Meath name in th' days gone by;an' be th' same token I have in me head that this here Count Taaffe,whether he's an austrich or a canary bur-rd now, is wan iv th' ol'fam'ly. There's manny iv thim in Europe an' all th' wurruld beside.There was Pat McMahon, th' Frinchman, that bate Looey Napoleon; an'O'Donnell, the Spanish juke; an' O'Dhriscoll an' Lynch, who do be th'whole thing down be South America, not to mention Patsy Bolivar. Yecan't go annywhere fr'm Sweden to Boolgahria without findin' a Turksettin' up beside th' king an' dalin' out th' deek with his own hand.Jawn, our people makes poor Irishmen, but good Dutchmen; an', th' moreI see iv thim, th' more I says to mesilf that th' rale boney fideIrishman is no more thin a foreigner born away from home. 'Tis so.
"Look at thim, Jawn," continued Mr. Dooley, becoming eloquent. "Whinthere's battles to be won, who do they sind for? McMahon or Shurdan orPhil Kearney or Colonel Colby. Whin there's books to be wrote, whowrites thim but Char-les Lever or Oliver Goldsmith or Willum Carleton?Whin there's speeches to be made, who makes thim but Edmund Burke orMacchew P. Brady? There's not a land on th' face iv th' wurruld butth' wan where an Irishman doesn't stand with his fellow-man, or abovethim. Whin th' King iv Siam wants a plisint evenin', who does he sindf'r but a lively Kerry man that can sing a song or play a good hand atspile-five? Whin th' Sultan iv Boolgahria takes tea, 'tis tin to wanth' man across fr'm him is more to home in a caubeen thin in a turban.There's Mac's an' O's in ivry capital iv Europe atin' off silverplates whin their relations is staggerin' under th' creels iv turf inth' Connaught bogs.
"Wirra, 'tis hard. Ye'd sa-ay off hand, 'Why don't they do as much fortheir own counthry?' Light-spoken are thim that suggests th' like ivthat. 'Tis asier said than done. Ye can't grow flowers in a graniteblock, Jawn dear, much less whin th' first shoot 'd be thrampled underfoot without pity. 'Tis aisy f'r us over here, with our bellies full,to talk iv th' cowardice iv th' Irish; but what would ye have wan maniv thim do again a rig'mint? 'Tis little fightin' th' lad will wantthat will have to be up before sunrise to keep th' smoke curlin' fr'mth' chimbley or to patch th' rush roof to keep out th' March rain. No,faith, Jawn, there's no soil in Ireland f'r th' greatness iv th' race;an' there has been none since th' wild geese wint across th' say toFrance, hangin' like flies to th' side iv th' Fr-rinch ship. 'Tis onlyf'r women an' childher now, an' thim that can't get away. Will th'good days ever come again? says ye. Who knows!"
THE SERENADE.
"By dad, if it wasn't f'r that there Molly Donahue," said Mr. Dooleyto Mr. McKenna, "half th' life 'd be gone out iv Bridgeport." "Whathas Molly Donahue been doin'?" asked Mr. McKenna.
"She have been causin' Felix Pindergasht to be sint to th' Sisters ivMercy Hospital with inflammathry rhoomatism. Ye know Felix. He is amusical janius. Before he was tin year old he had me mind disthractedbe playin' wan iv thim little mouth organs on th' corner near mebedroom window. Thin he larned to play th' ack-car-jeen, an' cud swingit between his legs an' give an imitation iv th' cathedral bell that'd make ye dig in ye'er pocket to see iv ye had a dime f'r a seat.Thin he used to sit in his window in his shirt-sleeves, blowin' 'Th'Vale iv Avoca' on a cornet. He was wan whole month before he cud getth' 'shall fade fr'm me heart' right. Half th' neighborhood 'd be outon th' sidewalk yellin' 'Lift it, Felix,--lift an' scatther it. Shallfade fr'm me ha-a-rt,--lift it, ye clumsy piper.'
"A few months back th' stupid gawk begun to be attintive to MollyDonahue, an', like th' wild wan she is, she dhrew him on. Did ye iversee th' wan that wudden't? Faith, they're all alike. If it ain't asthraight stick, it's a crooked wan; an' th' man was niver yet born,if he had a hump on his back as big as coal-scuttle an' had a facelike th' back iv a hack, that cudden't get th' wink iv th' eye fr'msome woman. They're all alike, all alike. Not that I've annythingagain thim: 'tis thim that divides our sorrows an' doubles our joys,an' sews chiny buttons on our pa-ants an' mends our shirts with blueyarn. But they'll lead a man to desthruction an' back again, thim samewomen.
"Well, Felix had no luck coortin' Molly Donahue. Wan night she wasn'tin; an' th' nex' night ol' man Donahue come to th' dure, an' says, 'Yecan put in th' coal at th' back dure,' he says, an' near broke th'la-ad's heart. Las' week he pulled himself together, an' wint up th'r-road again. He took his cornet with him in a green bag; an', whin hegot in front iv Donahue's house, he outs with th' horn, an' begins toplay. Well, sir
, at th' first note half th' block was in th' sthreet.Women come fr'm their houses, with their shawls on their heads; an'all th' forty-fives games was broke up be raison iv th' la-ads lavin'f'r to hear the music. Befure Felix had got fairly started f'r toserrynade Molly Donahue, th' crowd was big an' boistherous. He startedon th' ol' favor-ite, 'Th' Vale iv Avoca'; an' near ivry man in th'crowd had heerd him practisin' it. He wint along splendid till he cometo 'shall fade fr'm me heart,' an' thin he broke, 'Thry again,' saysth' crowd; an' he stharted over. He done no betther on th' secondwhirl. 'Niver say die, Felix,' says th' crowd. "Go afther it. We'reall with ye.' At that th' poor, deluded loon tackled it again; an' th'crowd yells: 'Hist it up. There ye go. No, be hivins he fell at th'last jump.' An', by dad, though he thried f'r half an hour, he cud notland th' 'shall fade fr'm me heart.' At th' last break th' light inMolly Donahue's window wint out, an' th' crowd dispersed. Felix wasdiscons'late. 'I had it right befure I come up,' he says, 'but Imissed me holt whin th' crowd come. Me heart's broke,' he says. 'Th'cornet's not ye'er insthrument,' says Dorsey. 'Ye shud thry to playth' base dhrum. It's asier.'"
Mr. Dooley: In the Hearts of His Countrymen Page 10
