And Grover Ponderous Flea, bowing graciously to the dogs, and smiling knowingly to the fleas, advanced to the throne, and lifting up his eyes to the Flag, thus addressed the occupant:
“Oh Honest Labor, whose very name is hallowed, hail! All hail! In this Land of the Free, whose very air is instantaneously deadly poison to tyranny and kings of the ancient sort, we, God’s own free-born, have learned that there is nothing truly noble but that which Nature has patented; that nothing deserves to reign but that which Nature has crowned King. Our fathers, the prophets, who gave us our Liberty and our Flag, taught us, and we, their children, have learned that Honest Labor is the Creator of all Wealth, our guide, preserver and friend, the Prop of our Republic, without whose support the bottom would fall out, and therefore the only true, rightful, Nature-ordained king, the only right sort of a king to reign over US, the finest race of dogs and fleas that God in his wonderful wisdom ever created.
“Therefore, in the name of all these dogs assembled here, and all the fleas, whose loyalty I voice, I invest thy sacred and large head, oh, Honest Labor, with this crown of large diameter. Thou art our Lord; thou art our King. We worship thee. We love thy dirty paws. We love thy smell. We proudly point to thine ungroomed and unwashen hide, for they are the insignia of thine inherent glory. Henceforth thou art our Lord, our god and King, and we thine ever-obedient subjects.” And with that he put the robe upon him, and put the sceptre in his right paw, and retired backward from the Royal Presence.
Then cried Dephool Flea again: “Bring forth the Royal Taffy Bowl and feed him royally full.”
Then did Grover Ponderous Flea advance again, this time preceded by his satellites, Rosy Pretty Flower and Pennzy Pattyson, bearing the ponderous bowl. He gave a sign, and all the Bamboozling Committee and a large number of fleas of all sorts, High Pressurists, Low Pressurists, Nighuntos and Faraways, smiling and smirking in most heavenly amicability upon one another, gathered around the Taffy Bowl.
Then Grover Ponderous Flea called upon Tee de Little Wit Blatherskite to say grace over the mess—which he did in his most blatherskitish and perfervid manner—and then lifting up his eyes to heaven, he muttered over it some words of a strange lingo, which none but the most learned of the Bamboozling Committee understood. Some said he was enraptured, and was in a trance, and was conversing with spirits who spoke a dialect of that part of heaven called Sherrycoblerland, which he understood. Some said it was not so; he was praying, which nobody there at all understood. But some very knowing fleas said Grover Ponderous Flea was a Great High Priest and had the gift of Transubstantiation, and was really muttering the Sacred Words over the Taffy, which transformed it into the real body and blood of the Everblessed Truth and Verity. Be it as it may, these were the words:
“There is one important aspect of the subject which especially should never be overlooked, at times like the present; when the evils of unsound finance threaten us, the speculator may anticipate a harvest gathered from the misfortune of others, the capitalist may protect himself by hoarding, or may even find profit in the fluctuation of values, but the wage earner—the first to be injured by a depreciated currency, and the last to receive the benefit of its correction—is practically defenceless. He relies for work upon the ventures of confident and contented capital; this failing him, his condition is without alleviation, for he can neither prey on the misfortunes of others, nor hoard his labor. One of the greatest statesmen our country has known, speaking more than fifty years ago, when a derangement of the currency had caused commercial distress, said: ‘The very man of all others who has the deepest interest in a sound currency and who suffers most by mischievous legislation in money matters, is the man who earns his daily bread by his daily toil.’ These words are as pertinent now as the day they were uttered, and ought to impressively remind us that a failure of the discharge of our duties at this time must especially injure those of our countrymen who labor, and who, because of their number and condition, are entitled to the most watchful care of their government.”
These words ended, all the fleas feeling sure that such beautiful words called for an Amen anyhow, said “Amen,” and then the Taffy Ladlers, led by Grover Ponderous Flea, Taffyist-in-Chief, passed reverently before King Honest Labor, and crying, “Oh, King, live forever,” poured each a spoonful down his throat, and poor Honest Labor, astonished at the unfamiliar tickling of something to swallow, eagerly opened his mouth its widest and hungriest.
It was noticed that the Taffy Ladlers, as they passed by and fed the King, shuddered with a disgust they tried laboriously to conceal. Some muttered to each other, “Confound this job; but it has to be done.” One said, “I don’t like his smell.” “Neither do I, but we must pretend we do,” replied another. Rosy Pretty Flower turned to his fellow satellite and asked: “Brother, why do we have to worship and taffy this dirty, lousy dog?” “Well, brother,” replied Pennzy Pattyson, “it is not given common mortals to solve the heavenly mysteries; all we know is, that the Bamboozling Committee, in their inscrutable wisdom, have decreed that we must. For my own private part, I’d rather shoot him.” “So would I,” briskly rejoined Rosy Pretty Flower, “but——”