“‘Wisha,’ ses the whale, ‘it gives me indigestion to hear people talking about Ireland. Sure, I nearly swallowed it up by mistake while I was on a holiday in the Atlantic last year, and I’m sorry now that I didn’t.’
“‘And I’m sorry that you didn’t try,’ ses the grasshopper. ‘Then you’d know something about indigestion. The less you have to say about Ireland, the less you’ll have to be sorry for. Remember that my father came from Cork.’
“‘Can’t I say what I like?’ ses the whale.
“‘You can think what you like,’ ses the grasshopper, ‘but say what other people like if you want to be a good politician.’
“‘There’s nothing so much abused as politics,’ ses the whale.
“‘Except politicians,’ ses the grasshopper. ‘Only for the Irish there’d be no one bothering about poetry and the drama to-day. Only for fools there’d be no wise people, and only for sprats, hake, and mackerel there’d be no whales, and a good job that would be too.’
“‘What’s that you’re saying?’ ses the whale very sharply.
“‘Don’t have me to lose my temper with you,’ ses the grasshopper.
“‘Wisha, bad luck to your impudence and bad manners, you insignificant little spalpeen. How dare you insult your superiors?’ ses the whale.
“‘Who’s my superior?’ says the grasshopper. ‘You, is it?’