“Th’ throuble about Cubia is that she’s free; th’ throuble about beet sugar is we’re not; an’ th’ throuble about th’ Ph’lippeens is th’ Ph’lippeen throuble,” said Mr. Dooley.  “As rega-ards Cubia, she’s like a woman that th’ whole neighborhood helps to divoorce fr’m a crool husband, but nivertheless a husband, an’ a miserable home but a home, an’ a small credit at th’ grocery but a credit, an’ thin whin she goes into th’ dhressmakin’ business, rayfuse to buy annything fr’m her because she’s a divoorced woman.  We freed Cubia but we didn’t free annything she projooces.  It wasn’t her fault.  We didn’t think.  We expicted that all we had to do was to go down to Sandago with a kinetoscope an’ sthrike th’ shackles fr’m th’ slave an’ she’d be comfortable even if she had no other protiction f’r her poor feet.  We f’rgot about th’ Beet.  Most iv us niver thought about that beautiful but fragile flower excipt biled in conniction with pigs’ feet or pickled in its own life juice.  We didn’t know that upon th’ Beet hangs th’ fate iv th’ nation, th’ hope iv th’ future, th’ permanence iv our instichoochions an’ a lot iv other things akelly precious.  Th’ Beet is th’ naytional anthem an’, be hivins, it looks as though it might be th’ naytional motto befure long.

“Well, Cubia got her freedom or something that wud look like th’ same thing if she kept it out iv th’ rain, but somehow or another it didn’t suit her entirely.  A sort iv cravin’ come over her that it was hard to tell fr’m th’ same feelin’ iv vacancy that she knew whin she was opprissed be th’ Hated Casteel.  Hunger, Hinnissy, is about th’ same thing in a raypublic as in a dispotism.  They’se not much choice iv unhappiness between a hungry slave an’ a hungry freeman.  Cubia cudden’t cuk or wear freedom.  Ye can’t make freedom into a stew an’ ye can’t cut a pair iv pants out iv it.  It won’t bile, fry, bake or fricassee.  Ye can’t take two pounds iv fresh creamery freedom, a pound iv north wind, a heapin’ taycupfull iv naytional aspirations an’ a sprinklin’ iv bars fr’m th’ naytional air, mix well, cuk over a hot fire an’ sarve sthraight fr’m th’ shtove; ye can’t make a dish out iv that that wud nourish a tired freeman whin he comes home afther a hard day’s wurruk lookin’ f’r a job.  So Cubia comes te us an’ says she:  ‘Ye done well by us,’ she says.  ‘Ye give us freedom,’ says she, ‘an’ more thin enough to go round,’ she says, ‘an’ now if ye plaze we’d like to thrade a little iv it bhack f’r a few groceries,’ she says.  ’We will wear wan shackle f’r a ham,’ says she, ‘an’ we’ll put on a full raygalia iv ball an’ chain an’ yoke an’ fetters an’ come-alongs f’r a square meal,’ says she.