‘Well,’ says he, ‘they’re arnychists,’ he says; ’they don’t assymilate with th’ counthry,’ he says.  ‘Maybe th’ counthry’s digestion has gone wrong fr’m too much rich food,’ says I; ’perhaps now if we’d lave off thryin’ to digest Rockyfellar an’ thry a simple diet like Schwartzmeister, we wudden’t feel th’ effects iv our vittels,’ I says.  ‘Maybe if we’d season th’ immygrants a little or cook thim thurly, they’d go down betther,’ I says.

“‘They’re arnychists, like Parsons,’ he says.  ’He wud’ve been an immygrant if Texas hadn’t been admitted to th’ Union,’ I says.  ‘Or Snolgosh,’ he says.  ‘Has Mitchigan seceded?’ I says.  ’Or Gittoo,’ he says.  ‘Who come fr’m th’ effete monarchies iv Chicago, west iv Ashland Av’noo,’ I says.  ’Or what’s-his-name, Wilkes Booth,’ he says.  ‘I don’t know what he was—­maybe a Boolgharyen,’ says I.  ‘Well, annyhow,’ says he, ‘they’re th’ scum iv th’ earth.’  ‘They may be that,’ says I; ‘but we used to think they was th’ cream iv civilization,’ I says.  ‘They’re off th’ top annyhow.  I wanst believed ‘twas th’ best men iv Europe come here, th’ la-ads that was too sthrong and indepindant to be kicked around be a boorgomasther at home an’ wanted to dig out f’r a place where they cud get a chanst to make their way to th’ money.  I see their sons fightin’ into politics an’ their daughters tachin’ young American idee how to shoot too high in th’ public school, an’ I thought they was all right.  But I see I was wrong.  Thim boys out there towin’ wan heavy foot afther th’ other to th’ rowlin’ mills is all arnychists.  There’s warrants out f’r all names endin’ in ’inski, an’ I think I’ll board up me windows, f’r,’ I says, ’if immygrants is as dangerous to this counthry as ye an’ I an’ other pilgrim fathers believe they are, they’se enough iv thim sneaked in already to make us aborigines about as infloointial as the prohibition vote in th’ Twinty-ninth Ward.  They’ll dash again’ our stern an’ rock-bound coast till they bust it,’ says I.

“’But I ain’t so much afraid as ye ar-re.  I’m not afraid iv me father an’ I’m not afraid iv mesilf.  An’ I’m not afraid iv Schwartzmeister’s father or Hinnery Cabin Lodge’s grandfather.  We all come over th’ same way, an’ if me ancestors were not what Hogan calls rigicides, ‘twas not because they were not ready an’ willin’, on’y a king niver come their way.  I don’t believe in killin’ kings, mesilf.  I niver wud’ve sawed th’ block off that curly-headed potintate that I see in th’ pitchers down town, but, be hivins, Presarved Codfish Shaughnessy, if we’d begun a few years ago shuttin’ out folks that wudden’t mind handin’ a bomb to a king, they wudden’t be enough people in Mattsachoosetts to make a quorum f’r th’ Anti-Impeeryal S’ciety,’ says I.  ’But what wud ye do with th’ offscourin’ iv Europe?’ says he.  ‘I’d scour thim some more,’ says I.

“An’ so th’ meetin’ iv th’ Plymouth Rock Assocyation come to an end.  But if ye wud like to get it together, Deacon Hinnissy, to discuss th’ immygration question, I’ll sind out a hurry call f’r Schwartzmeister an’ Mulcahey an’ Ignacio Sbarbaro an’ Nels Larsen an’ Petrus Gooldvink, an’ we ’ll gather to-night at Fanneilnoviski Hall at th’ corner iv Sheridan an’ Sigel sthreets.  All th’ pilgrim fathers is rayquested f’r to bring interpreters.”