Und gettin' vorse und vorser—
Und tumble on der bed!
So—ven der doctor seen id,
He kindo shake his head,
Und veel his pulse—und visper:
"Der boy is a-dyin'."
You dink I could believe id?
Dot leedle boy of mine?
I told you, friends—dot's someding,
Der last time dot he spheak
Und say, "Goot-by, Kriss Kringle!"
—Dot make me feel so veak
I yoost kneel down und drimble,
Und bur-sed out a-cryin',
"Mein Gott, Mein Gott in Himmel!—
Dot leedle boy of mine!"
Der sun don't shine dot Gristmas!
... Eef dot leedle boy vould liff'd—
No deefer-en'! for heaven vas
His leedle Gristmas gift!...
Und der rooster, und der gandy,
Und me—und my Katrina—
Und der jay-bird—is a-vatin'
For dot leedle boy of mine.
From "Green Fields and Running Brooks," copyright 1892. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.
MR. DOOLEY ON THE GRIP
BY FINLAY PETER DUNNE
Mr. Dooley was discovered making a seasonable beverage, consisting of one part syrup, two parts quinine, and fifteen parts strong waters.
"What's the matter?" asked Mr. McKenna.
"I have th' lah gr-rip," said Mr. Dooley, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. "Bad cess to it! Oh, me poor back! I feels as if a dhray had run over it. Did ye iver have it? Ye did not? Well, ye're lucky. Ye're a lucky man.
"I wint to MCGuire's wake las' week. They gave him a dacint sind-off. No porther. An' himself looked natural, as fine a corpse as iver Gavin layed out. Gavin tould me so himsilf. He was as proud iv McGuire as if he owned him. Fetched half th' town in to look at him, an' give ivry wan iv thim cards. He near frightened ol' man Dugan into a faint. 'Misther Dugan, how old a-are ye?' 'Sivinity-five, thanks be,' says Dugan. 'Thin,' says Gavin, 'take wan iv me cards,' he says. 'I hope ye'll not forget me,' he says.
"'Twas there I got th' lah grip. Lastewise, it is me own opinion iv it, tho th' docthor said I swallowed a bug. It don't seem right, Jawn, f'r th' MCGuires is a clane fam'ly; but th' docthor said a bug got into me system. 'What sort if bug?' says I. 'A lah grip bug,' he says. 'Ye have Mickrobes in ye're lungs,' he says. 'What's thim?' says I. 'Thim's th' lah grip bugs,' says he. 'Ye took wan in, an' warmed it,' he says, 'an' it has growed an' multiplied till ye're system does be full if thim,' he says, 'millions iv thim,' he says, 'marchin' an' counter-marchin' through ye.' 'Glory be to the saints!' says I. 'Had I better swallow some insect powdher?' I says. 'Some iv thim in me head has a fallin' out, an' is throwin' bricks.' 'Foolish man,' says he. 'Go to bed,' he says, 'an' lave thim alone,' he says; 'whin they find who they're in,' he says, 'they'll quit ye.'