karosene lamps, an’ is crowded with pathrites who haven’t been to bed.  At th’ dure are two or three polismen that maybe ye don’t care to meet.  Dock O’Leary says he don’t know annything that’ll exhaust th’ air iv a room so quick as a polisman in his winter unyform.  All th’ pathrites an’, as th’ pa-apers call thim, th’ high-priests iv this here sacred rite, ar-re smokin’ th’ best seegars that th’ token money iv our counthry can buy.

“In th’ pleasant warmth iv th’ fire, th’ harness on th’ walls glows an’ puts out its own peculiar aromy.  Th’ owner iv th’ sanchoo-ary iv Liberty comes in, shakes up a bottle iv liniment made iv carbolic acid, pours it into a cup an’ goes out.  Wan iv th’ domestic attindants iv th’ guests iv th’ house walks through fr’m makin’ th’ beds.  Afther a while th’ chief judge, who knows me well, because he shaves me three times a week, gives me a contimchous stare, asks me me name an’ a number iv scand’lous questions about me age.

“I’m timpted to make an angry retort, whin I see th’ polisman movin’ nearer, so I take me ballot an’ wait me turn in th’ booth.  They’re all occypied be writhin’ freemen, callin’ in sthrangled voices f’r somewan to light th’ candle so they’ll be sure they ain’t votin’ th’ prohybition ticket.  Th’ calico sheets over th’ front iv th’ booths wave an’ ar-re pushed out like th’ curtains iv a Pullman car whin a fat man is dhressin’ inside while th’ thrain is goin’ r-round a curve.  In time a freeman bursts through, with perspyration poorin’ down his nose, hurls his suffrage at th’ judge an’ staggers out.  I plunge in, sharpen an inch iv lead pencil be rendin’ it with me teeth, mutilate me ballot at th’ top iv th’ dimmycratic column, an’ run f’r me life.

“Cud a lady do that, I ask ye?  No, sir, ‘tis no job f’r th’ fair.  It’s men’s wurruk.  Molly Donahue wants a vote, but though she cud bound Kamachatka as aisily as ye cud this precint, she ain’t qualified f’r it.  It’s meant f’r gr-reat sturdy American pathrites like Mulkowsky th’ Pollacky down th’ sthreet.  He don’t know yet that he ain’t votin’ f’r th’ King iv Poland.  He thinks he’s still over there pretindin’ to be a horse instead iv a free American givin’ an imytation iv a steam dhredge.

“On th’ first Choosday afther th’ first Monday in November an’ April a man goes ar-round to his house, wakes him up, leads him down th’ sthreet, an’ votes him th’ way ye’d wather a horse.  He don’t mind inhalin’ th’ air iv liberty in a livery stable.  But if Molly Donahue wint to vote in a livery stable, th’ first thing she’d do wud be to get a broom, sweep up th’ flure, open th’ windows, disinfect th’ booths, take th’ harness fr’m th’ walls, an’ hang up a pitcher iv Niagary be moonlight, chase out th’ watchers an’ polis, remove th’ seegars, make th’ judges get a shave, an’ p’raps invalydate th’ iliction.  It’s no job f’r her, an’ I told her so.