out a circular letther sayin’ ivrybody in th’ wurruld ought to get together an’ stop makin’ war an’ live a quite an’ dull life.  Now Kipling don’t like the czar.  Him an’ th’ czar fell out about something, an’ they don’t speak.  So says Roodyard Kipling to himsilf, he says:  ’I’ll take a crack at that fellow,’ he says.  ‘I’ll do him up,’ he says.  An’ so he writes a pome to show that th’ czar’s letter’s not on th’ square.  Kipling’s like me, Hinnissy.  When I want to say annything lib-lous, I stick it on to me Uncle Mike.  So be Roodyard Kipling.  He doesn’t come r-right out, an’ say, ‘Nick, ye’re a liar!’ but he tells about what th’ czar done to a man he knowed be th’ name iv Muttons.  Muttons, it seems, Hinnissy, was wanst a hunter; an’ he wint out to take a shot at th’ czar, who was dhressed up as a bear.  Well, Muttons r-run him down, an’ was about to plug him, whin th’ czar says, ‘Hol’ on,’ he says,—­’hol’ on there,’ he says.  ‘Don’t shoot,’ he says.  ’Let’s talk this over,’ he says.  An’ Muttons, bein’ a foolish man, waited till th’ czar come near him; an’ thin th’ czar feinted with his left, an’ put in a right hook an’ pulled off Muttons’s face.  I tell ye ’tis so.  He jus’ hauled it off th’ way ye’d haul off a porous plasther,—­raked off th’ whole iv Muttons’s fr-ront ilivation.  ‘I like ye’er face,’ he says, an’ took it.  An’ all this time, an’ ’twas fifty year ago, Muttons hasn’t had a face to shave.  Ne’er a one.  So he goes ar-round exhibitin’ th’ recent site, an’ warnin’ people that, whin they ar-re shootin’ bears, they must see that their gun is kept loaded an’ their face is nailed on securely.  If ye iver see a bear that looks like a man, shoot him on th’ spot, or, betther still, r-run up an alley.  Ye must niver lose that face, Hinnissy.

“I showed th’ pome to Father Kelly,” continued Mr. Dooley.

“What did he say?” asked Mr. Hennessy.

“He said,” Mr. Dooley replied, “that I cud write as good a wan mesilf; an’ he took th’ stub iv a pencil, an’ wrote this.  Lemme see—­Ah! here it is:—­

  ‘Whin he shows as seekin’ frindship with paws that’re thrust in thine,
  That is th’ time iv pearl, that is th’ thruce iv th’ line.

  ‘Collarless, coatless, hatless, askin’ a dhrink at th’ bar,
  Me Uncle Mike, the Fenyan, he tells it near and far,

  ‘Over an’ over th’ story:  ‘Beware iv th’ gran’ flimflam,
  There is no thruce with Gazabo, th’ line that looks like a lamb.’

“That’s a good pome, too,” said Mr. Dooley; “an’ I’m goin’ to sind it to th’ nex’ meetin’ iv th’ Anglo-Saxon ’liance.”

LORD CHARLES BERESFORD.

“I see be th’ pa-apers,” said Mr. Dooley, “that Lord Char-les Beresford is in our mist, as Hogan says.”

“An’ who th’ divvle’s he?” asked Mr. Hennessy.

“He’s a Watherford man,” said Mr. Dooley.  “I knowed his father well,—­a markess be thrade, an’ a fine man.  Char-les wint to sea early; but he’s now in th’ plastherin’ business,—­cemintin’ th’ ‘liance iv th’ United States an’ England.  I’ll thank ye to laugh at me joke, Mr. Hinnissy, an’ not be standin’ there lookin’ like a Chinny-man in a sthreet-car.”