a wondher to me that th’ ocean don’t get tired iv growlin’ an’ roarin’ at th’ race iv men.  They don’t pay anny heed to it’s hollering.  Whin it behaves itsilf they praise it as though it was a good dog.  ’How lovely our ocean looks undher our moon.’  Whin it rises in its wrath they show their contimpt f’r it be bein’ sea-sick into it.  But no matther how it behaves they niver quit usin’ its face f’r a right iv way.  They’ll niver subjoo it but it niver bates thim.  There niver was a time in th’ history iv little man’s sthruggle with th’ vasty deep that he didn’t deserve a decision on points.”

“Well, it’s all very well, but f’r me th’ dhry land,” said Mr. Hennessy.  “Will ye iver cross th’ ocean again?”

“Not,” said Mr. Dooley, “till they asphalt it an’ run th’ boats on throlleys.”

WORK

“Ye haven’t sthruck yet, have ye?” said Mr. Dooley.

“Not yet,” said Mr. Hennessy.  “But th’ dillygate was up at th’ mills to-day an’ we may be called out anny minyit now.”

“Will ye go?” asked Mr. Dooley.

“Ye bet I will,” said Mr. Hennessy.  “Ye just bet I will.  I stand firm be union principles an’ besides it’s hot as blazes up there these days.  I wudden’t mind havin’ a few weeks off.”

“Ye’ll do right to quit,” said Mr. Dooley.  “I have no sympathy with sthrikers.  I have no sympathy with thim anny more thin I have with people goin’ off to a picnic.  A sthrike is a wurrukin’ man’s vacation.  If I had to be wan iv thim horny-handed sons iv toil, th’ men that have made our counthry what it is an’ creates th’ wealth iv th’ wurruld—­if I had to be wan iv thim pillars iv th’ constitution, which thank Gawd I haven’t, ‘tis sthrikin’ I’d be all th’ time durin’ th’ heated term.  I’d begin sthrikin’ whin th’ flowers begin to bloom in th’ parks, an’ I’d stay on sthrike till ‘twas too cold to sit out on th’ bleachers at th’ baseball park.  Ye bet I wud.

“I’ve noticed that nearly all sthrikes occur in th’ summer time.  Sthrikes come in th’ summer time an’ lockouts in th’ winter.  In th’ summer whin th’ soft breezes blows through shop an’ facthry, fannin’ th’ cheeks iv th’ artisan an’ settin’ fire to his whiskers, whin th’ main guy is off at th’ seashore bein’ pinched f’r exceedin’ th’ speed limit, whin ‘tis comfortable to sleep out at nights an’ th’ Sox have started a batting sthreak, th’ son iv Marthy, as me frind Roodyard Kipling calls him, begins to think iv th’ rights iv labor.

“Th’ more he looks out iv th’ window, th’ more he thinks about his rights, an’ wan warm day he heaves a couplin’ pin at th’ boss an’ saunters away.  Sthrikes are a great evil f’r th’ wurrukin’ man, but so are picnics an’ he acts th’ same at both.  There’s th’ same not gettin’ up till ye want to, th’ same meetin’ ye’er frinds f’r th’ first time in their good clothes an’ th’ same thumpin’ sthrangers over th’ head with a brick.  Afther awhile th’ main guy comes home fr’m th’ seaside, raises wages twinty per cent, fires th’ boss an’ takes in th’ walkin’ dillygate as a specyal partner.