I am,’ says Sampson.  ‘Th’ navy iv th’ United States,’ he says, ‘which is wan iv th’ best, if not th’ best, in th’ wurruld,’ he says, ‘was not,’ he says, ’intinded f’r sthreet fightin’,’ he says.  ‘We’ll stay here,’ he says, ’where we ar-re,’ he says, ‘until,’ he says, ‘we can equip th’ ships with noomatic tire wheels,’ he says, ‘an’ ball bearin’s,’ he says.

“‘Well,’ says Shafter, ‘if ye won’t go in,’ he says, ’we’ll show ye th’ way,’ he says.  An’ he calls on Cap Brice, that was wan iv th’ youngest an’ tastiest dhressers in th’ whole crool an’ devastatin’ war.  ‘Cap,’ he says, ‘is they anny hay in th’ camp?’ he says.  ‘Slathers iv it,’ says th’ cap.  ‘Onless,’ he says, ‘th’ sojers et it,’ he says.  ‘Th’ las’ load iv beef that come down fr’m th’ undhertakers,’ he says, ‘was not good,’ he says.  ‘Ayether,’ he says, ’’twas improperly waked,’ he says, ‘or,’ he says, ‘th’ pall-bearers was careless,’ he says.  ‘Annyhow,’ he says, ‘th’ sojers won’t eat it; an’, whin I left, they was lookin’ greedily at th’ hay,’ he says.  ‘Cap,’ says Gin’ral Shafter, ‘if anny man ates a wisp, shoot him on th’ spot,’ he says.  ’Those hungry sojers may desthroy me hopes iv victhry,’ he says.  ‘What d’ye mane?’ says Cap Brice.  ‘I mane this,’ says Gin’ral Shafter.  ‘I mane to take yon fortress,’ he says.  ’I’ll sind ye in, Cap,’ he says, ‘in a ship protected be hay,’ he says.  ’Her turrets ’ll be alfalfa, she’ll have three inches iv solid timithy to th’ water line, an’ wan inch iv th’ best clover below th’ wather line,’ he says.  ’Did ye iver see an eight-inch shell pinithrate a bale iv hay?’ he says.  ‘I niver did,’ says Cap Brice.  ’Maybe that was because I niver see it thried,’ he says.  ‘Be that as it may,’ says Gin’ral Shafter, ‘ye niver see it done.  No more did I,’ he says.  ‘Onless,’ he says, ‘they shoot pitchforks,’ he says, ’they’ll niver hur-rt ye,’ he says.  ‘Ye’ll be onvincible,’ he says.  ’Ye’ll pro-ceed into th’ harbor,’ he says, ‘behind th’ sturdy armor iv projuce,’ he says.  ‘Let ye’er watchword be “Stay on th’ far-rm,” an’ go on to victhry,’ he says.  ‘Gin’ral,’ says Cap Brice, ’how can I thank ye f’r th’ honor?’ he says. ‘’Tis no wondher th’ men call ye their fodder,’ he says.  ‘Twas a joke Cap Brice med at th’ time.  ‘I’ll do th’ best I can,’ he says; ‘an’, if I die in th’ attempt,’ he says, ’bury me where the bran-mash ‘ll wave over me grave,’ he says.

“An’ Gin’ral Shafter he got together his fleet, an’ put th’ armor on it.  ‘Twas a formidable sight.  They was th’ cruiser ‘Box Stall,’ full armored with sixty-eight bales iv th’ finest grade iv chopped feed; th’ ‘R-red Barn,’ a modhern hay battleship, protected be a whole mow iv timothy; an’ th’ gallant little ‘Haycock,’ a torpedo boat shootin’ deadly missiles iv explosive oats.  Th’ expedition was delayed be wan iv th’ mules sthrollin’ down to th’ shore an’ atin’ up th’ afther batthry an’ par-rt iv th’ ram iv th’ ‘R-red Barn’ an’, befure repairs was made, Admiral Cervera heerd iv what was goin’ on.  ’Glory