Mr. Dooley Says - Finley Peter Dunne (best young adult book series .TXT) 📗

deprived us iv th' right to collect debts be killin' th' debtor ye wud take away fr'm war its entire moral purpose. I must ask ye again to cease thinkin' on this subjick in a gross mateeryal way an' considher th' moral side alone,' he says. Th' conference was much moved be this pathetic speech, th' dillygate fr'm France wept softly into his hankerchef, an' th' dillygate fr'm Germany wint over an' forcibly took an open-face goold watch fr'm th' dillygate fr'm Vinzwala.

"Th' Hon'rable Joe Choate moved that in all future wars horses shud be fed with hay wheriver possible. Carrid. A long informal talk on th' reinthroduction iv scalpin' followed. At last th' dillygate fr'm Chiny arose an' says he: 'I'd like to know what war is. What is war annyhow?' 'Th' Lord knows, we don't,' says th' chairman. 'We're all profissors iv colledges or lawyers whin we're home,' he says. 'Is it war to shoot my aunt?' says th' dillygate fr'm Chiny. Cries iv 'No, no.' 'Is it war to hook me father's best hat that he left behind whin he bashfully hurrid away to escape th' attintions iv Europeen sojery?' he says. 'Is robbery war?' says he. 'Robbery is a nicissry part iv war,' says th' English dillygate. 'F'r th' purpose iv enfoorcin' a moral example,' he says.

"'Well,' says old Wow Chow, 'I'd like to be able to go back home an' tell thim what war really is. A few years back ye sint a lot iv young men over to our part iv th' wurruld an' without sayin' with ye'er leave or by ye'er leave they shot us an' they hung us up be our psyche knots an' they burned down our little bamboo houses. Thin they wint up to Pekin, set fire to th' town, an' stole ivry thing in sight. I just got out iv th' back dure in time to escape a jab in th' spine fr'm a German that I niver see befure. If it hadn't been that whin I was a boy I won th' hundred yards at th' University iv Slambang in two hours an' forty minyits, an' if it hadn't happened that I was lightly dhressed in a summer overskirt an' a thin blouse, an' if th' German hadn't stopped to steal me garters, I wudden't be here at this moment,' says he. 'Was that war or wasn't it?' he says. 'It was an expedition,' says th' dillygate fr'm England, 'to serve th' high moral jooties iv Christyan civvylization.' 'Thin,' says th' dillygate fr'm Chiny, puttin' on his hat, 'I'm f'r war,' he says. 'It ain't so rough,' he says. An' he wint home."


TURKISH POLITICS

"Well, sir," said Mr. Dooley, "onaisy lies th' crown on anny king's head these days. Th' time was whin it was me ambition or wan iv thim to be a king. Arly in life I'd committed the youthful folly iv bein' born outside iv th' counthry an' so I cuddent be Prisidint. But it don't make anny diff'rence what counthry a king comes from so long as he don't come fr'm th' counthry where he's king. 'No natives need apply,' is th' motto. If a counthry is so bad off that it has to have a king, they sind a comity down to Ellis Island an' pick out a good healthy Scandinavyan, make him throw away his wooden shoes an' leather cap, an' proclaim him king, Definder iv th' Faith. Kings are th' on'y assisted immygrants that are let in. Th' King iv England is German, th' King iv Italy is a Sardine, th' King iv Sweden is a Fr-rinchman, an' all th' other kings an' queens are Danes excipt th' King iv Denmark, an' th' Lord knows what he is.

"So ye see, Hinnissy, there's nawthin' in th' Constitution to prevint me fr'm bein' a king, an I looked forward to th' time whin I'd turn th' Illinye Cinthral deepo into a rile palace an' rule me subjicks, ye'ersilf among thim, with a high hand. I'd be a just but marciful monarch. No wan that come to th' palace wud go away empty handed. I'd always lave thim a little something. Divvle a bit iv a cabinet I'd have, but I'd surround mesilf with th' best thrained flattherers that cud be hired f'r love or money, an' no wan wud tell me th' truth, an' I'd live an' die happy. I'd show these modhern kings how a king ought to behave. Ye wudden't see Martin I, iv beloved mim'ry, runnin' around like a hired entertainer, wan day doin' th wurruk iv a talkative bricklayer at th' layin' iv a cornerstone, another day presidin' over a bankit iv th' Amalgamated Society iv Mannyfacthrers iv Hooks-an'-Eyes or racin' horses with Boots Durnell an' Charlie Ox or waitin' out in th' rain f'r a balloon to come down that's stuck on a church steeple forty miles away. No, sir, I'd niver appear in public but wanst a year, an' thin I'd blindfold me lile subjicks so that they'd stay lile. An' I'd niver open me mouth excipt to command music an' dhrink. But th' low taste iv kings has rooned th' business as a pursoot f'r gintlemen, an' to-day I'd think twict befure takin' th' job. 'Tis as preecaryous as a steeple jack's, an' no more permanent thin a Rosenfelt holdover undher Taft. If a king goes out an' looks haughty some wan iv his subjicks fires a gas pipe bomb at him, an' if he thries to be janial he's li'ble to be slapped on th' back in th' paddock an' called 'Joe.'

"Look at me frind, Abdul Hamid. Whin I dhreamed iv bein' king, sometimes I let me mind run on till I had mesilf promoted to be Sultan iv Turkey. There, me boy, was a job that always plazed me. It was well paid, it looked to be permanent, and I thought it about th' best situation in th' wurruld. Th' Sultan was a kind iv a combination iv pope an' king. If he didn't like ye, he first excommunicated ye an' thin he sthrangled ye. There, thinks I to mesilf, there he sets, th' happy old ruffyan, on a silk embroidered lounge, in his hand-wurruked slippers, with his legs curled up undher him, a turban on his head, a crooked soord in his lap, a pitcher iv sherbet (which is th' dhrink in thim parts) at his elbow, a pipestem like a hose in his hand, while nightingales whistle in th' cypress threes in th' garden an' beautiful Circassyan ladies dance in front iv him far fr'm his madding throng iv wives, as th' pote says.

"Whin th' sicrety iv th' threasury wants to repoort to him, he starts fr'm his office on his stomach an' wriggles into th' august prisince. 'What is it ye want, oh head iv lignum vity?' says th' Sultan. 'Bark f'r th' ladies,' says he with a chuckle. 'Oh, descindant iv th' prophet, whose name be blest! Oh, sun an' moon an' stars, whose frown is death an' whose smile is heaven to th' faithful;--' 'Don't be so familyar with me first name,' says th' Sultan, 'but go on with ye'er contimptible supplication,' says he. 'Ye'er slave,' says th' sicrety iv th' threasury fr'm th' flure, 'is desthroyed with grief to tell ye that afther standin' th' intire empire on its head he's been onable to shake out more thin two millyon piasthres f'r this week's expinses iv ye'er awfulness,' says he. 'What!' says th' sultan, 'two millyon piasthres--bar'ly enough to buy bur-rd seed f'r me bulbuls,' says he. 'How dare ye come into me august prisince with such an insult. Lave it on th' flure f'r th' boy that sweeps up, oh, son iv a tailor,' he says, an' he gives a nod an' fr'm behind a curtain comes Jawn Johnson with little on him, an' th' next thing ye hear iv th' faithless minister is a squeak an' a splash. He rules be love alone, thinks I, an' feelin' that life without love is useless, annybody that don't love him can go an' get measured f'r a name plate an' be sure he'll need it befure th' price is lower. His people worship him an' why shudden't they. He allows thim to keep all th' dogs they want, he proticts thim fr'm dissolute habits be takin' their loose money fr'm thim, an' ivry year he gives thim an Armeenyan massacree which is a great help to th' cigareet business in this counthry.

"Happy Abdul, thinks I. If I cud be a haythen an' was a marryin' man, 'tis ye'er soft spot I'd like to land in f'r me declinin' days. So whin I r-read in th' pa-apers that there was a rivolution startin' to fire Abdul Hamid, I says to mesilf: 'A fine chance ye've got, me lads. That old boy will be holdin' down his job whin there's a resignation fr'm th' supreeme coort bench at Wash'nton,' says I. 'Th' first thing ye young Turks know ye'll-be gettin' a prisent fr'm ye'er sov'reign iv a necktie,' says I, 'an' it won't fit ye,' says I.

"Well, sir, I was wrong. I knew I was wrong th' minyit I see a pitcher iv Abdul Hamid in th' pa-aper--a snap-shot, mind ye! Think of that, will ye? D'ye suppose a sultan or a king that knew his thrade wud iver let anny wan take a snap-shot iv him? Did ye iver hear iv Alexander th' Gr-reat or Napoleon Bonyparte havin' a snap-shot took iv him? No, sir. Whin they wanted to satisfy th' vulgar curiosity iv th' popylace to know what their lord looked like, they chained an artist to a wall in th' cellar of th' palace an', says they: 'Now set down an' paint a pitcher iv me that will get ye out iv here,' says they. Nobody in thim days knew that th' king had a mole on his nose an' that wan iv his eyes was made iv glass, excipt th' people that had jobs to lose.

"Up to th' time Abdul Hamid wint thrapezin' around Constantinople in a hack an' havin' his pitcher took be amachoor phottygrafters his job was secure. Up to that time whin wan Turk talked to another about him they talked in whispers. 'What d'ye suppose he's like, Osman?' says wan. 'Oh me, oh my,' says th' other, 'but he's th' tur-rble wan. They says his voice is like thunder, an' lightnin' shoots fr'm his eyes that wud shrivel th' likes iv ye an' me to a cinder.' But whin Abdul, be damid, as th' potes call him, made th' mistake iv pokin' his head out iv th' palace 'twas diff'rent. 'Well, who d'ye think I see to-day but th' Sultan. I tell ye I did. What is he like? He ain't much to look at--a skinny little man, Osman, that ye cud sthrangle between ye'er thumb an' forefinger. He had a bad cold an' was sneezin'. He wore a hand-me-down coat. He has a wen on th' back iv his neck an' he's crosseyed. Here's a pitcher iv him.' 'What, that little runt? Ye don't mean to say that's th' Sultan.--Why, he looks like th' fellow that stops me ivry day on th' corner an' asks me have I anny old clothes betther thin what I have on. An' to think iv th' likes iv him rulin' over th' likes iv us. Let's throw him out.'

"So it was with me old frind Abdul. Wan day a captain an' a squad iv polis backed th' wagon up to th' dure iv th' palace an' rung th' bell. 'Who's there?' says th' Sultan, stuffin' th' loose change into his shoe. 'Th' house is pulled,' says th' captain. 'Ye'er license is expired. Ye'd betther come peaceful,' he says. An' they bust in th'