“So th’ avenin’ proceeded until it was time to go home, whin th’ chairman proposed th’ customary toast.  ‘Me lords an’ gintlemen, charge ye’er glasses an’ jine me in a toast,’ he says.  ’His majesty Edward th’ Sivinth, iv Gr-reat Britain an’ possibly Ireland, iv Inja, Egypt, iv Austhralya, iv South Africa in a sinse, an’ iv th’ Dominions beyant th’ sea, includin’ New York, King, Definder iv th’ Faith.  I hope I got it all in.’  ‘Ye did,’ said th’ ambassadure.  An’ th’ toast was dhrunk with enthusyasm.  Other toasts was dhrunk to th’ rile fam’ly an’ th’ Protestant Succession, to th’ Jook iv Argyle who used to own Andhrew Carnaygie, an’ in manny cases th’ rile merchants carrid th’ glasses away in their pockets.  Jus’ as th’ comp’ny was breakin’ up a man whose gaiters creaked rose an’ said:  ‘Isn’t there wan more toast?’ ’Good hivins have I f’rgotten somewan?’ said Lord Cheeseshop.  ‘That was all there was in th’ book.  Who d’ye mane?’ he says.  ‘I mane th’ prisidint iv th’ United States,’ says th’ man, who comes fr’m Baraboo.  ‘Oh him,’ says th’ chairman in a relieved tone.  ’Well, annywan that wants to can dhrink his health at th’ bar,’ he says.

“As th’ comp’ny filed out a band was playin’ in th’ adjinin’ room where they was a meetin’ iv th’ Amalgamated Stove-polish men fr’m th’ neighborhood iv Terry Hut.  ‘What’s that outlandish chune?’ says Lord Cheeseshop. ‘’Tis th’ naytional air, west iv Hoboken,’ says th’ man fr’m Baraboo.  ‘What’s it called?’ says Lord Cheeseshop.  ‘Th’ Star Spangled Banner,’ says th’ man.  ‘Well,’ says Lord Cheeseshop, ‘’tis very intherestin’,’ he says. ‘’Tis th’ on’y Indyan music I iver heerd,’ he says.”

“Ah well,” said Mr. Hennessy, " who cares?”

“Faith I think ye’re right,” said Mr. Dooley.  “A man will swallow annything with a dinner.  What is good f’r what Hogan calls th’ iliminthry canal has nawthin’ to do with th’ Nicaragoon Canal an’ I’d be more afraid iv Lord Cheeseshop if he thought th’ toast an’ didn’t say it.  Our Anglo-Saxon relations is always a give-away —­on some wan.”

Art Patronage

“I see in this pa-aper,” said Mr. Dooley, “they’se a fellow kickin’ because an American painther ain’t got anny chanst again’ foreign compytition.”

“Sure,” said Mr. Hennessy; “he’s aisy displazed.  I niver knew th’ business to be betther.  Wages is high an’ ’tis a comfortable thrade barrin’ colic.”

“I don’t mane that kind iv painthers,” said Mr. Dooley.  “I don’t mane th’ wans that paint ye’er barn, but th’ wans that paints a pitcher iv ye’er barn an’ wants to sell it to ye f’r more thin th’ barn is worth.  This man says no matther how industhrees an American painther is, no matther if he puts on his overalls arly in th’ mornin’ an’ goes out with a laddher an’ whales away all day long, he can hardly arn a livin’, while th’ pauper artists iv Europe is fairly rowlin’ in th’ lap iv luxury.  Manny a la-ad that started in life with th’ intintion iv makin’ th’ wurruld f’rget that what’s his name—­Hogan’s frind—­ye know who I mane—­Michael Angelo—­ever lived, is now glad to get a job decoratin’ mountain scenery with th’ latest news about th’ little liver pills.