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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 139 pages of information about Observations By Mr. Dooley.
Chicago to New York in twinty hours, but I don’t have to, thank th’ Lord.  Thirty years ago we thought ’twas marvelous to be able to tillygraft a man in Saint Joe an’ get an answer that night.  Now, be wireless tillygraft ye can get an answer befure ye sind th’ tillygram if they ain’t careful.  Me friend Macroni has done that.  Be manes iv his wondher iv science a man on a ship in mid-ocean can sind a tillygram to a man on shore, if he has a confid’rate on board.  That’s all he needs.  Be mechanical science an’ thrust in th’ op’rator annywan can set on th’ shore iv Noofoundland an’ chat with a frind in th’ County Kerry.

“Yes, sir, mechanical science has made gr-reat sthrides.  Whin I was a young man we used to think Hor’ce Greeley was th’ gr-reatest livin’ American.  He was a gran’ man, a gran’ man with feathers beneath his chin an’ specs on his nose like th’ windows in a diver’s hemlet.  His pollyticks an’ mine cudden’t live in th’ same neighborhood but he was a gran’ man all th’ same.  We used to take th’ Cleveland Plain Daler in thim days f’r raycreation an’ th’ New York Thrybune f’r exercise.  ’Twas considhered a test iv a good natured dimmycrat if he cud read an article in th’ Thrybune without havin’ to do th’ stations iv th’ cross aftherward f’r what he said.  I almost did wanst but they was a line at th’ end about a frind iv mine be th’ name iv Andhrew Jackson an’ I wint out an’ broke up a Methodist prayer meetin’.  He was th’ boy that cud put it to ye so that if ye voted th’ dimmycrat tickit it was jus’ th’ same as demandin’ a place in purgytory.  Th’ farmers wud plant annything fr’m a ruty baga to a congressman on his advice.  He niver had money enough to buy a hat but he cud go to th’ sicrety iv th’ threasury an’ tell him who’s pitcher to put on th’ useful valentines we thrade f’r groceries.

“But if Hor’ce Greeley was alive today where’d he be?  Settin’ on three inches iv th’ edge iv a chair in th’ outside office iv me frind Pierpont Morgan waitin’ f’r his turn.  In th’ line is th’ Imp’ror iv Germany, th’ new cook, th’ prisidint iv a railroad, th’ cap’n iv th’ yacht, Rimbrandt th’ painther, Jawn W. Grates, an’ Hor’ce.  Afther awhile th’ boy at th’ dure says:  ‘Ye’re next, ol’ party.  Shtep lively f’r th’ boss has had a Weehawken Peerooginy sawed off on him this mornin’ an’ he mustn’t he kep’ waitin’.’  An’ th’ iditor goes in.  ‘Who ar-re ye?’ says th’ gr-reat man, givin’ him wan iv thim piercin’ looks that whin a man gets it he has to be sewed up at wanst.  ‘I’m ye’er iditor,’ says Hor’ce.  ‘What’s ye’er spishilty?’ ‘Tahriff an’ th’ improvemint iv th’ wurruld,’ says Hor’ce.  ‘See Perkins,’ says Pierpont, an’ th’ intherview is over.  Now what’s made th’ change?  Mechanical Science, Hinnissy.  Some wan made a masheen that puts steel billets within th’ reach iv all.  Hince Charlie Schwab.

“What’s it done f’r th’ wurruld? says ye.  It’s done ivrything.  It’s give us fast ships an’ an autymatic hist f’r th’ hod, an’ small flats an’ a taste iv solder in th’ peaches.  If annybody says th’ wurruld ain’t betther off thin it was, tell him that a masheen has been invinted that makes honey out iv pethrolyum.  If he asts ye why they ain’t anny Shakesperes today, say:  ’No, but we no longer make sausages he hand.’

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