“But in winter, what Hogan calls another flower iv our industhreel system blooms.  In th’ winter it’s warmer in th’ foundhry thin in th’ home.  There is no hearth as ample in anny man’s home as th’ hearth th’ Steel Comp’ny does its cookin’ by.  It is pleasant to see th’ citizen afther th’ rigors iv a night at home hurryin’ to th’ mills to toast his numbed limbs in th’ warm glow iv th’ Bessemer furnace.  About this time th’ main guy takes a look at the thermometer an’ chases th’ specyal partner out iv th’ office with th’ annual report iv th’ Civic Featheration.  He thin summons his hardy assocyates about him an’ says he:  ‘Boys, I will no longer stand f’r th’ tyranny iv th’ unions.  Conditions has changed since last summer.  It’s grown much colder.  I do not care f’r the money at stake, but there is a great principle involved.  I cannot consint to have me business run be outsiders at a cost iv near thirty thousand dollars a year,’ says he.  An’ there’s a lockout.

“‘Tis a matther iv th’ seasons.  So if ye sthrike ye’ll not get me sympathy.  I resarve that f’r me infeeryors.  I’ll keep me sympathy f’r th’ poor fellow that has nobody to lure him away fr’m his toil an’ that has to sweat through August with no chanst iv gettin’ a day in th’ open onless th’ milishy are ordhered out an’ thin whin he goes back to wurruk th’ chances are somebody’s got his job while th’ sthrikin’ wurrukin’ man returns with his pockets full iv cigars an’ is hugged at th’ dure be the main guy.  If I was rejooced to wurrukin’ f’r me livin’, if I was a son iv Marthy I’d be a bricklayer.  They always sthrike durin’ th’ buildin’ season.  They time it just right.  They niver quit wurruk.  They thry not to meet it.  It is what Hogan calls a pecolyar fact that bricklayers always time their vacations f’r th’ peeryod whin there is wurruk to be done.

“No, sir, don’t ask me to weep over th’ downthrodden wurrukin’ man whin he’s out on sthrike.  Ye take these here tillygraft op’rators that have laid off wurruk f’r th’ summer.  Do they look as though they were sufferin’?  Ye bet they don’t.  Th’ tired tillygraft op’rator come home last week with a smile on his face.  ‘I have good news f’r ye, mother,’ says he.  ‘Ye haven’t sthruck?’ says she, hope sthrugglin’ with fear in her face.  ‘Ye’ve guessed it,’ says he.  ’We weren’t exactly ordhered out.  Th’ signal f’r a sthrike was to be a series iv sharp whistles fr’m the walkin’ dillygate, but, whin that didn’t come an’ we were tired iv waitin’ th’ report iv th’ baseball game come over th’ wires an’ we mistook that f’r a signal.  Ye must get the childher ready f’r a day in th’ counthry.  We can’t tell how soon this sthruggle again th’ greed iv capital will be declared off an’ we must make th’ most iv it while it lasts,’ says he.