f'r us over here, with our bellies full,
to talk iv th' cowardice iv th' Irish; but what would ye have wan man
iv thim do again a rig'mint? 'Tis little fightin' th' lad will want
that will have to be up before sunrise to keep th' smoke curlin' fr'm
th' 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 to
France, hangin' like flies to th' side iv th' Fr-rinch ship. 'Tis only
f'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. Dooley
to Mr. McKenna, "half th' life 'd be gone out iv Bridgeport." "What
has Molly Donahue been doin'?" asked Mr. McKenna.

"She have been causin' Felix Pindergasht to be sint to th' Sisters iv
Mercy Hospital with inflammathry rhoomatism. Ye know Felix. He is a
musical janius. Before he was tin year old he had me mind disthracted
be playin' wan iv thim little mouth organs on th' corner near me
bedroom window. Thin he larned to play th' ack-car-jeen, an' cud swing
it 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 get
th' 'shall fade fr'm me heart' right. Half th' neighborhood 'd be out
on th' sidewalk yellin' 'Lift it, Felix,--lift an' scatther it. Shall
fade fr'm me ha-a-rt,--lift it, ye clumsy piper.'

"A few months back th' stupid gawk begun to be attintive to Molly
Donahue, an', like th' wild wan she is, she dhrew him on. Did ye iver
see th' wan that wudden't? Faith, they're all alike. If it ain't a
sthraight 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 face
like th' back iv a hack, that cudden't get th' wink iv th' eye fr'm
some woman. They're all alike, all alike. Not that I've annything
again thim: 'tis thim that divides our sorrows an' doubles our joys,
an' sews chiny buttons on our pa-ants an' mends our shirts with blue
yarn. But they'll lead a man to desthruction an' back again, thim same
women.

"Well, Felix had no luck coortin' Molly Donahue. Wan night she wasn't
in; an' th' nex' night ol' man