Mr. Dooley's Philosophy by Finley Peter Dunne (novel books to read txt) 📗

picnics—ye'd think these unforchnate slaves'd be delighted to live in Mulligan's subdivision, amid th' threes an' flowers an' bur-rds. Gettin' up at four o'clock in th' mornin' th' singin' iv th' full-throated alarm clock is answered be an invisible choir iv songsters, as Shakespere says, an' ye see th' sun rise over th' hills as ye go out to carry in a ton iv coal. All day long ye meet no wan as ye thrip over th' coal-scuttle, happy in ye'er tile an' ye'er heart is enlivened be th' thought that th' childher in th' front iv th' house ar-re growin' sthrong on th' fr-resh counthry air. Besides they'se always cookin' to do. At night ye can set be th' fire an' improve ye'er mind be r-readin' half th' love story in th' part iv th' pa-aper that th' cheese come home in, an' whin ye're through with that, all ye have to do is to climb a ladder to th' roof an' fall through th' skylight an' ye're in bed.”

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“But wud ye believe it, Hinnissy, manny iv these misguided women rayfuse f'r to take a job that aint in a city. They prefer th' bustle an' roar iv th' busy marts iv thrade, th' sthreet car, th' saloon on three corners an' th' church on wan, th' pa-apers ivry mornin' with pitchers iv th' s'ciety fav'rite that's just thrown up a good job at Armours to elope with th' well-known club man who used to be yard-masther iv th' three B's, G, L, & N., th' shy peek into th' dhry-goods store, an' other base luxuries, to a free an' healthy life in th' counthry between iliven P.M. an' four A.M. Wensdahs an' Sundahs. 'Tis worse thin that, Hinnissy, f'r whin they ar-re in th' city they seem to dislike their wurruk an' manny iv thim ar-re givin' up splindid jobs with good large families where they have no chanst to spind their salaries, if they dhraw thim, an' takin' places in shops, an' gettin' marrid an' adoptin' other devices that will give thim th' chanst f'r to wear out their good clothes. 'Tis a horrible situation. Riley th' conthractor dhropped in here th' other day in his horse an' buggy on his way to the dhrainage canal an' he was all wurruked up over th' question. 'Why,' he says, ''tis scand'lous th' way servants act,' he says. 'Mrs. Riley has hystrics,' he says. 'An' ivry two or three nights whin I come home,' he says, 'I have to win a fight again' a cook with a stove lid befure I can move me family off th' fr-ront stoop,' he says. 'We threat thim well too,' he says. 'I gave th' las' wan we had fifty cints an' a cook book at Chris'mas an' th' next day she left befure breakfast,' he says. 'What naytionalties do ye hire?' says I. 'I've thried thim all,' he says, 'an',' he says, 'I'll say this in shame,' he says, 'that th' Irish ar-re th' worst,' he says. 'Well,' says I, 'ye need have no shame,' I says, 'f'r'tis on'y th' people that ar-re good servants that'll niver be masthers,' I says. 'Th' Irish ar-re no good as servants because they ar-re too good,' I says. 'Th' Dutch ar-re no good because they aint good enough. No matther how they start they get th' noodle habit. I had wan, wanst, an' she got so she put noodles in me tay,' I says. 'Th' Swedes ar-re all right but they always get marrid th' sicond day. Ye'll have a polisman at th' dure with a warrant f'r th' arrist iv ye'er cook if ye hire a Boheemyan,' I says. 'Coons'd be all right but they're liable f'r to hand ye ye'er food in ragtime, an' if ye ordher pork-chops f'r dinner an' th' hall is long, 'tis little ye'll have to eat whin th' platter's set down,' I says. 'No,' says I, 'they'se no naytionality now livin' in this counthry that're nathral bor-rn servants,' I says. 'If ye want to save throuble,' I says, 'ye'll import ye'er help. They'se a race iv people livin' in Cinthral Africa that'd be jus' r-right. They niver sleep, tkey can carry twice their weight on their backs, they have no frinds, they wear no clothes, they can't read, they can't dance an' they don't dhrink. Th' fact is they're thoroughly oneddycated. If ye cud tache thim to cook an' take care iv childher they'd be th' best servants,' says I. 'An' what d'ye call thim?' says he. 'I f'rget,' says I. An' he wint away mad.”

“Sure an' he's a nice man to be talkin' iv servants,” said Mr. Hennessy. “He was a gintleman's man in th' ol' counthry an' I used to know his wife whin she wurruked f'r ——”

“S-sh,” said Mr. Dooley. “They're beyond that now. Besides they speak fr'm experyence. An' mebbe that's th' throuble. We're always harder with our own kind thin with others. 'Tis I that'd be th' fine cinsor iv a bartinder's wurruk. Th' more ye ought to be a servant ye'ersilf th' more difficult'tis f'r ye to get along with servants. I can holler to anny man fr'm th' top iv a buildin' an' make him tur-rn r-round, but if I come down to th' sthreet where he can see I aint anny bigger thin he is, an' holler at him, 'tis twinty to wan if he tur-rns r-round he'll hit me in th' eye. We have a servant girl problem because, Hinnissy, it isn't manny years since we first begun to have servant girls. But I hope Congress'll take it up. A smart Congress like th' wan we have now ought to be able to spare a little time fr'm its preparation iv new Jims iv speech f'r th' third reader an' rig up a bill that'd make keepin' house a recreation while so softenin' th' spirit iv th' haughty sign iv a noble race in th' kitchen that cookin' buckwheat cakes on a hot day with th' aid iv a bottle iv smokeless powdher'd not cause her f'r to sind a worthy man to his office in slippers an' without a hat.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Hennessy, the simple democrat. “It wud be all r-right if women'd do their own cookin'.”

“Well,” said Mr. Dooley. “'Twud be a return to Jacksonyan simplicity, an' 'twud be a gr-reat thing f'r th' resthrant business.”