Mr. Dooley Says | Page 7

over, an' nawthin' but three hundhred
hairpins remained to mark th' scene iv slaughter. Thus, Hinnissy, was
another battle f'r freedom fought an' lost."
"It sarves thim right," said Mr. Hennessy. "They ought to be at home
tindin' th' babies."
"A thrue statement an' a sound argymint that appeals to ivry man.
P'raps they havn't got any babies. A baby is a good substichoot f'r a
ballot, an' th' hand that rocks th' cradle sildom has time f'r anny other
luxuries. But why shud we give thim a vote, says I. What have they
done to injye this impeeryal suffrage that we fought an' bled f'r? Whin
me forefathers were followin' George Wash'nton an' sufferin' all th'
hardships that men endure campin' out in vacation time, what were th'
women doin'? They were back in Matsachoosetts milkin' th' cow,
mendin' socks, followin' th' plow, plantin' corn, keepin' store, shoein'
horses, an' pursooin' th' other frivvlous follies iv th' fair but fickle sect.
Afther th' war our brave fellows come back to Boston an' as a reward f'r
their devotion got a vote apiece, if their wives had kept th' Pilgrim
fathers that stayed at home fr'm foreclosin' th' morgedge on their

property. An' now, be hivens, they want to share with us what we won.
"Why, they wudden't know how to vote. They think it's an aisy job that
anny wan can do, but it ain't. It's a man's wurruk, an' a sthrong man's
with a sthrong stomach. I don't know annything that requires what
Hogan calls th' exercise iv manly vigor more thin votin'. It's th' hardest
wurruk I do in th' year. I get up befure daylight an' thramp over to th'
Timple iv Freedom, which is also th' office iv a livery stable. Wan iv th'
judges has a cold in his head an' closes all th' windows. Another judge
has built a roarin' fire in a round stove an' is cookin' red-hots on it. Th'
room is lit with candles an' karosene lamps, an' is crowded with
pathrites who haven't been to bed. At th' dure are two or three polismen
that maybe ye don't care to meet. Dock O'Leary says he don't know
annything that'll exhaust th' air iv a room so quick as a polisman in his
winter unyform. All th' pathrites an', as th' pa-apers call thim, th'
high-priests iv this here sacred rite, ar-re smokin' th' best seegars that th'
token money iv our counthry can buy.
"In th' pleasant warmth iv th' fire, th' harness on th' walls glows an' puts
out its own peculiar aromy. Th' owner iv th' sanchoo-ary iv Liberty
comes in, shakes up a bottle iv liniment made iv carbolic acid, pours it
into a cup an' goes out. Wan iv th' domestic attindants iv th' guests iv th'
house walks through fr'm makin' th' beds. Afther a while th' chief judge,
who knows me well, because he shaves me three times a week, gives
me a contimchous stare, asks me me name an' a number iv scand'lous
questions about me age.
"I'm timpted to make an angry retort, whin I see th' polisman movin'
nearer, so I take me ballot an' wait me turn in th' booth. They're all
occypied be writhin' freemen, callin' in sthrangled voices f'r somewan
to light th' candle so they'll be sure they ain't votin' th' prohybition
ticket. Th' calico sheets over th' front iv th' booths wave an' ar-re
pushed out like th' curtains iv a Pullman car whin a fat man is dhressin'
inside while th' thrain is goin' r-round a curve. In time a freeman bursts
through, with perspyration poorin' down his nose, hurls his suffrage at
th' judge an' staggers out. I plunge in, sharpen an inch iv lead pencil be
rendin' it with me teeth, mutilate me ballot at th' top iv th' dimmycratic

column, an' run f'r me life.
"Cud a lady do that, I ask ye? No, sir, 'tis no job f'r th' fair. It's men's
wurruk. Molly Donahue wants a vote, but though she cud bound
Kamachatka as aisily as ye cud this precint, she ain't qualified f'r it. It's
meant f'r gr-reat sturdy American pathrites like Mulkowsky th'
Pollacky down th' sthreet. He don't know yet that he ain't votin' f'r th'
King iv Poland. He thinks he's still over there pretindin' to be a horse
instead iv a free American givin' an imytation iv a steam dhredge.
"On th' first Choosday afther th' first Monday in November an' April a
man goes ar-round to his house, wakes him up, leads him down th'
sthreet, an' votes him th' way ye'd wather a horse. He don't mind
inhalin' th' air iv liberty in a livery stable. But if Molly Donahue wint to
vote in