"Not bein' ayther a parent or an iddycator I nivir had such a child," said Mr. Dooley. "I don't know what I'd do if I was. Th' on'y thing I wudden't do wud be to hit him if he cudden't hit back, an' thin I'd think twice about it. Th' older I grow th' more things there are I know I don't know annything about. An' wan iv thim is childher. I can't figure thim out at all.
"What d'ye know about thim little wans that ye have so carefully reared be lavin' thim in th' mornin' befure they got up an' losin' ye'er temper with at night whin ye come home fr'm wurruk? They don't know ye an' ye don't know thim. Ye'll niver know till 'tis too late. I've often wondhered what a little boy thinks about us that call oursilves grown up because we can't grow anny more. We wake him up in th' mornin' whin he wants to sleep. We make him wash his face whin he knows it don't need washin' thin as much as it will later an' we sind him back to comb his hair in a way he don't approve iv at all. We fire him off to school just about th' time iv day whin anny wan ought to be out iv dures. He trudges off to a brick buildin' an' a tired teacher tells him a lot iv things he hasn't anny inthrest in at all, like how manny times sivin goes into a hundhred an' nine an' who was King iv England in thirteen twinty-two an' where is Kazabazoo on the map. He has to set there most iv th' pleasant part iv th' day with sixty other kids an' ivry time be thries to do annything that seems right to him like jabbin' a frind with a pin or carvin' his name on the desk, th' sthrange lady or gintleman that acts as his keeper swoops down on him an' makes him feel like a criminal. To'rds evenin' if he's been good an' repressed all his nacharal instincts he's allowed to go home an' chop some wood. Whin he's done that an' has just managed to get a few iv his frinds together an' they're beginnin' to get up interest in th' spoort iv throwin' bricks down into a Chinese laundhry his little sister comes out an' tells him he's wanted at home. He instinctively pulls her hair an' goes in to study his lessons so that he'll be able to-morrow to answer some ridiklous questions that are goin' to be asked him. Afther a while ye come home an' greet him with ye'er usual glare an' ye have supper together. Ye do most iv th' talkin', which ain't much. If he thries to cut in with somethin' that intelligent people ought to talk about ye stop him with a frown. Afther supper he's allowed to study some more, an' whin he's finished just as th' night begins to look good he's fired off to bed an' th' light is taken away fr'm him an' he sees ghosts an' hobgoberlins in th' dark an' th' next he knows he's hauled out iv bed an' made to wash his face again.
"An' so it goes. If he don't do anny iv these things or if he doesn't do thim th' way ye think is th' right way some wan hits him or wants to. Talk about happy childhood. How wud ye like to have twinty or thirty people issuin' foolish ordhers to ye, makin' ye do things ye didn't want to do, an' niver undherstandin' at all why it was so? Tis like livin' on this earth an' bein' ruled by the inhabitants iv Mars. He has his wurruld, ye can bet on that, an' 'tis a mighty important wurruld. Who knows why a kid wud rather ate potatoes cooked nice an' black on a fire made of sthraw an' old boots thin th' delicious oatmeal so carefully an' so often prepared f'r him be his kind parents? Who knows why he thinks a dark hole undher a sidewalk is a robbers' cave? Who knows why he likes to collect in wan pocket a ball iv twine, glass marbles, chewin' gum, a dead sparrow an' half a lemon? Who knows what his seasons are? They are not mine, an' they're not ye'ers, but he goes as reg'lar fr'm top time to marble time an' fr'm marble time to kite time as we go fr'm summer to autumn an' autumn to winter. To-day he's thryin' to annihilate another boy's stick top with his; to-morrow he's thrying to sail a kite out iv a tillygraft wire. Who knows why he does it?
"Faith we know nawthin' about him an' he knows nawthin' about us. I can raymimber whin I was a little boy but I can't raymimber how I was a little boy. I call back 's though it was yisterdah th' things I did, but why I did thim I don't know. Faith, if I cud look for'ard to th' things I've done I cud no more aisily explain why I was goin' to do thim. Maybe we're both wrong in the way we look at each other—us an' th' childher. We think we've grown up an' they don't guess that we're childher. If they knew us betther they'd not be so surprised at our actions an' wudden't foorce us to hit thim. Whin ye issued some foolish ordher to ye'er little boy he'd say: 'Pah-pah is fractious to-day. Don't ye think he ought to have some castor ile?'"
"It's a wise child that knows his own father," said Mr. Hennessy.
"It's a happy child that doesn't," said Mr. Dooley.
OVER A WOOD FIRE
DONALD G. MITCHELL
I have got a quiet farmhouse in the country, a very humble place, to be sure, tenanted by a worthy enough man of the old New England stamp, where I sometimes go for a day or two in the winter, to look over the farm accounts and to see how the stock is thriving on the winter's keep.