face.  He’s a gr-reat frind iv theirs an’ they’re surprised he isn’t gayer.  Something must’ve happened to him.  Maybe he’s lost his job.  There ar-re a gr-reat manny noises in th’ sthreet.  Th’ undertaker whistles as he goes by, an’ two iv th’ neighbors ar-re at th’ gate sayin’ what a fine man ye were if ye didn’t dhrink, an’ askin’ did ye leave much.

“An’ little ye care.  Everything is a millyon miles away fr’m ye.  F’r th’ first time in ye’er life ye’re alone.  F’r the first time in ye’er life ye ar-re ye’ersilf.  F’r Hiven knows how manny years ye’ve been somebody else.  Ye’ve been ye’er wife, ye’er fam’ly, ye’er relations, th’ polisman on th’ beat, th’ doctor, th’ newspaper reporther, th’ foreman at th’ mills, th’ laws iv th’ land, th’ bartinder that gives ye dhrinks, th’ tailor, th’ barber, an’ public opinion.  Th’ wurruld has held a lookin’-glass in front iv ye fr’m th’ day ye were born an’ compelled ye to make faces in it.  But in this here particular business ye have no wan to please but ye’ersilf.  Good opinyon an’ bad opinyon ar-re alike.  Ye’re akelly unthroubled be gratichood an’ revenge.  No wan can help ye or stay ye.  Ye’re beyond th’ sound iv th’ alarm clock an’ th’ facthry whistle an’ beginnin’ th’ Big Day Off whin th’ man iv Science shakes ye be th’ elbow an’ says:  ‘Ye’ve got to weigh out.’  An’ he weighs figures:  ’Wan hundhred an’ forty-siven fr’m wan hundhred an’ fifty.  Siven fr’m naught can’t be done; borry wan; siven fr’m ten leaves three.  I find that th’ soul iv our late laminted frind weighed a light three pounds avirdoopoise.’

“No, sir, it won’t do.  ’Twill niver be popylar.  People won’t have their souls weighed.  I wudden’t f’r all th’ wurruld have th’ wurrud go through th’ ward:  ‘Did ye hear about Dooley’s soul?’ ‘No, what?’ ’They had to get an expert accountant to figure its weight, it was that puny.’

“D’ye suppose Dorgan, th’ millyonaire, wud consint to it?  Whin he entered th’ race iv life he was properly handicapped with a soul to offset his avarice an’ his ability, so that some iv th’ rest iv us wud have a kind iv a show again him.  But as soon as he thinks no wan can see him he begins to get rid iv his weight an’ comes rompin’ home miles ahead.  But th’ judges say:  ‘Hold on, there; yell have to weigh out,’ an’ a little later a notice is posted up that Dorgan is disqualified f’r ridin’ undherweight in th’ matther iv soul.  On th’ other hand, there’s little Miss Maddigan, th’ seamstress.  She’s all but left at th’ post; she’s jostled all th’ way around, an’ comes in lame, a bad last.  But she’s th’ only wan iv th’ lot that’s kept th’ weight.  She weighs ninety-six pounds—­six iv it bein’ tea an’ toast an ninety iv it soul.