"I wint to McGuire's wake las' week. They give him a dacent sind-off. No porther. An' himsilf looked natural—as fine a corpse as iver Gavin laid out. Gavin tould me so himsilf. He was as pr-roud iv McGuire as if he ownded him; fetched half th' town in to look at him an' give ivery wan iv thim his ca-ards. He near frightened ol' man Dugan into a faint. 'Misther Dugan, how old a-are ye?' 'Sivinty-five, thanks be,' says Dugan. 'Thin,' says Gavin, 'take wan iv me ca-ards,' he says. 'I hope ye'll not forget me,' he says.
"'Twas there I got th' lah grip. Lasteways 'tis me opinion iv it, though th' docther says I swallowed a bug. It don't seem right, Jawn, f'r th' McGuires is a clane fam'ly, but th' docther says a bug got into me system. 'What sort iv bug?' says I. 'A lah grip bug,' he says. 'Yez have Mickrobes in ye'er lung,'he says. 'What's thim?' says I. 'Thims th' lah grip bugs,' says he. 'Ye took wan in an' warmed it,' he says, 'an' it has growed an' multiplied till ye'er system does be full iv thim,' he says, 'millions iv thim,' he says, 'ma-archin' an' counthermarchin' through ye.' 'Glory be to th' saints,' says I. 'Had I betther swallow some insect powdher?' I says. 'Some iv thim in me head has had 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.'
"So I wint to bed an' waited, while th' Mickrobes had fun with me. Monday all iv thim was quiet but thim in me stummick. They stayed up late dhrinkin' an' carousin' an' dancin' jigs till wur-ruds come up bechune th' Kerry Mickrobes an' thim fr'm Wixford an' th' whole pa-arty wint over to me lift lung, where they could get th' air, an' had it out. Th' nex' day th' little Mickrobes made a toboggan slide iv me spine an' manetime some Mickrobes that was wur-r-kin' f'r th' tiliphone comp'ny got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an' put on their spikes an' climbed all night long.
"They was tired out th' nex' day till about 5 o'clock, whin thim that was in me head begin flushin' out th' rooms an' I knew they're was goin' to be doings in th' top flat. What did thim Mickrobes in me head do but invite all th' other Mickrobes in f'r th' avnin'. They all come. Oh, by gar, they was not wan iv thim stayed away. At 6 o'clock they begun to move fr'm me shins to me thrawt. They come in platoons an' squads an' dhroves. Some iv thim brought along brass bands an' more thin wan hundred thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes in dhrays. A throlley line was started up me back an ivry car r-run into a wagon load iv scrap iron at th' base iv me skull.
"Th' Mickrobes in me head must've done thimsilves proud. Ivery few minutes some wan iv th' kids 'd be sint out with th' can an' I'd say to mesilf: 'There they go, carryin' th' trade to Schwartzmeister's because I'm sick an' can't wait on thim.' I was daffy, Jawn, d'ye mind? Th' likes iv me fillin' a pitcher f'r a little boy-bug! Ho, ho! Such dhreams. An' they had a game iv forty-fives, an' there was wan Mickrobe there that larned to play th' game in th' County Tipp'rary, where 'tis played on stone, an' iv'ry time he led thrumps he'd like to knock me head off. 'Who's thrick is that?' says th' Tipp'rary Mickrobe. 'Tis mine,' says a little red-headed Mickrobe fr'm th' County Roscommon. They tipped over th' chairs an' tables, an' in less time thin it takes to tell th' whole pa-arty was at it. They'd been a hurlin' game in th' back iv me skull an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin' leppin' matches in me forehead, but they all stopped to mix in. Oh, 'twas a grand shindig—tin millions iv thim min, women an' childher rowlin' on th' flure, hands an' feet goin', icepicks an' hurlin' sticks, clubs, brickbats an' beer kags flyin' in th' air. How manny iv thim was kilt I'll niver know, f'r I wint as daft as a hen an' dhreamt iv organizin' a Mickrobe Campaign club, that'd sweep th' prim'ries an' maybe go acrost an' free Ireland. Whin I woke up me legs was as weak as a day-old babby's an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. I want no more iv thim. Give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle save an' excipt thim wist iv Ireland fenians—th' Mickrobes."
A DOCTRINAL DISCUSSION
Harry Stillwell Edwards
Looking wearily over the far-stretching fields of corn, the leaves twisting in the heat, and contemplating the discouraging cotton prospect, old Uncle Henry, the plantation carpenter, said, half jestingly to a negro passing, "Uncle Ben, why don't you pray for rain?"