“That sounds raisonable enough an’ bein’ be nature a gin’rous people whin we don’t think, we’re about to help her disthress with whativer we have cold in th’ panthry whin th’ thought iv th’ Beet crosses our minds.  What will th’ Beet say, th’ red, th’ juicy, th’ sacchrine Beet, th’ Beet iv our Fathers, th’ Beet iv Plymouth Rock, Beet iv th’ Pilgrim’s Pride, Sweet Beet iv Liberty, iv thee I sing?  If we do annything f’r Cubia, down goes th’ Beet, an’ with th’ Beet perishes our instichoochions.  Th’ constichoochion follows th’ Beet ex propria vigore, as Hogan says.  Th’ juice iv th’ Beet is th’ life blood iv our nation.  Whoiver touches a hair iv yon star spangled Beet, shoot him on th’ spot.  A bold Beet industhry a counthry’s pride whin wanst desthroyed can niver be supplied.  ‘Beet sugar an’ Liberty Now an’ Foriver, wanan’ insiprable’—­Dan’l Webster.  ‘Thank Gawd I—­I also—­am a Beet’—­th’ same.  ’Gover’mint iv th’ Beet, by th’ Beet an’ f’r th’ Beet shall not perish fr’m th’ earth,’—­Abraham Lincoln.  An’ so, Hinnissy, we put th’ pie back into th’ ice-chest where we keep our honor an’ ginerosity an’ lock th’ dure an’ Cubia goes home, free an’ hopeless.  D’ye think so?  Well, I don’t.  Be hivins, Hinnissy, I think th’ time has come whin we’ve got to say whether we’re a nation iv Beets.  I am no serf, but I’d rather be bent undher th’ dispotism iv a Casteel thin undher th’ tyranny iv a Beet.  If I’ve got to be a slave, I’d rather be wan to a man, even a Spanish man, thin to a viggytable.  If I’m goin’ to he opprissed be a Beet, let it be fr’m th’ inside not fr’m without.  I’ll choose me masther, Hinnissy, an’ whin I do, ‘twill not be that low-lyin’, purple-complected, indygistible viggytable.  I may bend me high head to th’ egg-plant, th’ potato, th’ cabbage, th’ squash, th’ punkin, th’ sparrow-grass, th’ onion, th’ spinach, th’ rutabaga turnip, th’ Fr-rench pea or th’ parsnip, but ’twill niver be said iv me that I was subjygated be a Beet.  No, sir.  Betther death.  I’m goin’ to begin a war f’r freedom.  I’m goin’ to sthrike th’ shackles fr’m a slave an’ I’m him.  I’m goin’ to organize a rig’mint iv Rough Riders an’ whin I stand on th’ top iv San Joon hill with me soord in me hand an’ me gleamin’ specs on me nose, ye can mark th’ end iv th’ domination iv th’ Beet in th’ western wurruld.  F’r, Hinnissy, I tell ye what, if th’ things I hear fr’m Wash’nton is thrue, that other war iv freedom stopped befure it was half done.”

“An’ what about th’ Ph’lippeens?” asked Mr. Hennessy.

“They’se nawthin’ to say about th’ Ph’lippeens,” said Mr. Dooley, “excipt that th’ throuble down there is all over.”

“All over?”

“All over.”

Bad Men From The West

“I see,” said Mr. Hennessy, “th’ Sinit has rayfused f’r to confirm th’ nommynation iv a man f’r an office out West because he’d been in jail.”