which I will fight anny man f'r sayin,' an' was livin' at home, I'd tuck
me shirt into me pants, put me braid up in a net, an' go out an' take a
fall out iv th' in-vader if it cost me me life. Here am I, Hop Lung
Dooley, r-runnin' me little liquor store an' p'rhaps raisin' a family in
th' town iv Koochoo. I don't like foreigners there anny more thin I do
here. Along comes a bald-headed man with chin whiskers from Baraboo,
Wisconsin, an' says he: 'Benighted an' haythen Dooley,' says he, 'ye
have no God,' he says. 'I have,' says I. 'I have a lot iv thim,' says I.
'Ye ar-re an oncultivated an' foul crather,' he says. 'I have come six
thousan' miles f'r to hist ye fr'm th' mire iv ignorance an' irrellijon
in which ye live to th' lofty plane iv Baraboo,' he says. An' he sets
down on an aisy chair, an' his wife an' her friends come in an' they
inthrojooce Mrs. Dooley to th' modhren improvements iv th' corset an'
th' hat with th' blue bur-rd onto it, an' put shame into her because she
hasn't let her feet grow, while th' head mission'ry reads me a pome out
iv th' _Northwesthren Christyan Advocate_. 'Well,' says I, 'look
here, me good fellow,' I says. 'Me an' me people has occypied these here
primises f'r manny years,' I says, 'an' here we mean to stay,' I says.
'We're doin' th' best we can in th' matther iv gods,' says I. 'We have
thim cast at a first-rate foundhry,' I says, 'an' we sandpa-aper thim
ivry week,' says I. 'As f'r knowin' things,' I says, 'me people wrote
pomes with a markin' brush whin th' likes iv ye was r-runnin' ar-round
wearin' a short pelisse iv sheepskins an' batin' each other to death
with stone hammers,' says I. An' I'm f'r firin' him out, but bein' a
quite man I lave him stay."

"Th' nex' day in comes a man with a suit iv clothes that looks like a
tablecloth in a section house, an' says he: 'Poor ignorant haythen,' he
says, 'what manner iv food d'ye ate?' he says. 'Rice,' says I, 'an' rats
is me fav'rite dish,' I says. 'Deluded wretch,' says he. 'I riprisint