I saw Teddy Reagan the other day; he told me he had been dealing in hogs. “Is business good?” says I. “Yis,” says he. “Talking about hogs, Teddy, how do you find yourself?” sez I. I wint to buy a clock the other day, to make a present to Mary Jane. “Will you have a Frinch clock?” says the jeweler. “The deuce take your Frinch clock,” sez I. “I want a clock that my sister can understand when it strikes.” “I have a Dutch clock,” sez he, “an’ you kin put that on the shtairs.” “It might run down if I put it there,” sez I. “Well,” sez he, “here’s a Yankee clock, with a lookin’-glass in the front, so that you can see yourself,” sez he. “It’s too ugly,” sez I. “Thin I’ll take the lookin’-glass out, an’ whin you look at it you’ll not find it so ugly,” sez he.
I wint to Chatham Sthreet to buy a shirt, for the one I had on was a thrifle soiled. The Jew who kept the sthore looked at my bosom, an’ said: “So hellup me gracious! how long do you vear a shirt?” “Twinty-eight inches,” sez I. “Have you any fine shirts?” sez I. “Yis,” sez he. “Are they clane?” says I. “Yis,” sez he. “Thin you had better put one on,” sez I.
You may talk about bringin’ up childer in the way they should go, but I believe in bringing them up by the hair of the head. Talking about bringing up childer—I hear my childer’s prayers every night. The other night I let thim up to bed without thim. I skipped and sthood behind the door. I heard the big boy say: “Give us this day our daily bread.” The little fellow said: “Sthrike him for pie, Johnny.” I have one of the most economical boys in the Citty of New York; he hasn’t spint one cint for the last two years. I am expecting him down from Sing Sing prison next week.
Talking about boys, I have a nephew who, five years ago, couldn’t write a word. Last week he wrote his name for $10,000; he’ll git tin years in the pinatintiary. I can’t write, but I threw a brick at a policeman and made my mark.
They had a fight at Tim Owen’s wake last week. Mary Jane was there. She says, barrin’ herself, there was only one whole nose left in the party, an’ that belonged to the tay-kettle.
PASSING OF THE HORSE.
I drove my old horse, Dobbin, full slowly toward the town,