Maloney—Iny of thim, Doc, thot’s safely Dimocratic.
* * * * *
He had reached heaven in good time. Hello, St. Peter, said he. ’Tis a
foine job you have.
Right, sir. ’Tis a great place here. We count a million years as a minute
and a million dollars as a cent.
Is that so, said he, wonderingly. Well, it’s money I need. Will you lend
me a cent, St. Peter?
Sure, replied St. Peter, in a minute.
* * * * *
Brannigan, Flannigan, Milligan, Gilligan,
Duffy, McGuffy, Mullarky, Mahone,
Rafferty, Lafferty, Connelly, Donnelly,
Dooley, O’Hooley, Muldowny, Malone;
Maddigan, Caddigan, Hallahan, Callahan,
Fagan, O’Hagan, O’Houlihan, Flynn,
Shanagan, Lanagan, Fogarty, Hogarty,
Kelly, O’Skelly, McGinnis, McGinn.
* * * * *
Pat came to the wake. He walked up to the bier and looking at the remains
of his buddie, Mike, he burst out laughing. He was prompt-hustled out of
the room by many strong hands and when he got his breath he explained:
Well, you see, the last time I talked with Mike he argied with me that
there wasn’t no heaven and there wasn’t no hell, and I couldn’t kape from
laffin’ when I see him lyin’ there all dressed up and no where to go.
* * * * *
Two Irishmen were on a ship coming over to America. One night Mike awoke
Pat and said, Pat, get up quick, the ship is sinking. Pat said, what do
we care? It’s not ours.
* * * * *
The little Irishman was being examined for admission to the army. He
seemed all right in every way except one. The doctor said, you’re a
little stiff. Quickly the Irish blood mounted as the applicant replied,
You’re a big stiff!
* * * * *
R. Hinton Perry, the sculptor, is responsible for the following story of
the scrublady who cares for his studio.
How many children have you Mrs. O’Flarity? he asked of her one morning.
It’s siven I have, sir, she replied. Four be the third wife of my second
husband, three be the second wife of me furst.
* * * * *
Two young men met an Irishman. Said one: Well, Pat, what’s the news?
Divil a bit, yer honors; ’tis very dull in these parts. Have yez any news?
Yes, Pat; some very important news.
Is that so, yer honors? Phat is it?
We heard awhile ago for a fact that the devil was dead.
Is that so? Och, worra, worra! What a pity, said he, taking out some
money and giving to each a quarter.
Oh, Pat, take back your money; we don’t charge you anything.
Och, I know yez don’t; but ’twas a custom in the old country to give the
orphans something when their father died.
* * * * *
An Irishman who was signing articles on board a ship began to write
his name with his right hand, then, changing the pen to his left hand,
finished it.
So you can write with either hand, Pat? asked the officer.
Yis, sor, replied Pat. Whin I was a boy me father (rist his soul) always
said to me Pat, learn to cut yer finger nails wid your left hand, for
some day ye might lose your right.
* * * * *
A good old Irish pastor was thanking his congregation for the many Easter
offerings, and his tremulous voice told how great was his pleasure.
I want to thank the congregation, he said, for the many beautiful gifts
from my people this glorious Easter Sunday. The plate donations were
far in excess of my expectations, the candles were many and freely
contributed, and the flowers were simply beautiful; but I want to say
right here and now that the thing that touched my heart the most was whin
little Mar-r-y Killy walked oop the aisle an’ laid an egg on the altar.
* * * * *
Two Irishmen, long enemies, met one day. Said one: What’s the sinse of
two intilligint min goin’ along year after year like a couple of wildcats
spittin’ at each other? Here we live in the same tinimint, and ’tis a
burnin’ shame that we do be actin’ like a couple of boobies. Come along
wid yer and shake hands, and we’ll make up and be friends. Which they
did, and went to an adjacent public house to cement their friendship with
a glass of grog. Both stood at the bar in silence. One looked at the
other and said:
What are you thinkin’ about?
Oi’m thinkin’ the same thing that you are.
Oh, so ye’re startin’ agin, are ye?
* * * * *
The frequent and unsuccessful candidacy of certain men in this town for
public office reminded George (Scotty) Dore of a story of his friend
Hogan.
Hogan was raffling a clock, said Mr. Dore. He was fairly successful in
disposing of tickets in the shop where he worked, but he ran up against
trouble when he canvassed his neighbors.
Dropping in at a neighbor’s house, he tried to sell a ticket on the clock.
It’s a fine timepiece, and it’ll luk foine on yer what-not er mantel,
says Hogan, cajolingly.
Gwan, the old clock doesn’t run! replied the neighbor.
Well, drawled Hogan, changing front completely, well perhaps yez won’t
win it, and then ye’ll have the laugh on the fellow who does.
* * * * *
Street cleaning commissioner Paul Inglehart, of Baltimore, returned
recently from a gunning trip in Anne Arundel county and brought with him
a supply of new stories told in the historic old South River Club.
The one that particularly took Mr. Inglehart’s fancy was that of the
Irish servant girl who one day asked her mistress what was the meaning of
the word “kismet”. After thinking a little while the mistress said:
Why, Bridget, it is another name for fate.
A day or so afterward the mistress discovered Bridget hobbling down the
stairs evidently in great pain and walking very lame.
Why, what on earth is the matter with you? she asked.
Oh, sure, ma’am, was the reply, I’ve got bunions on my kismet.
* * * * *
How is this? the detective inquired, with a jerk of his thumb toward the
interior of the car.
How’s what? inquired the Irishman.
Nine passengers got on and you only rung up eight fares.
Is that so, responded the conductor, with a look of innocent surprise. He
cautiously counted the fares on the large dial. The spotter was waiting.
Begorra, yer right. Wan of thim has got to git off.
* * * * *
Thomas Patrick Gallagher, typical Irish traffic copper, was stationed on
Madison street in Chicago at the point intersected by the river.
One bustling Saturday afternoon, Gallagher held up his hand to halt
traffic for the draw bridge. In front of him was a new handsome limousine
motor car.
While waiting for the bridge to close, a runabout flivver crashed into
the rear end of the handsome car.
Gallagher was on the job promptly and hustled over to the driver of the
flivver.
Phwat in hal does yez mane by smashing into this handsome car? Haven’t
you got any eyes? he bellowed at the meek and humble driver. Are you
crazy? I’ve a good mind to take you down to the headquarters, you
blithering idiot. What’s your name? continued Gallagher, as he extracted
a pencil and notebook from his pocket, what is the number of your car?
The answer back in typical Gaelic, me name is Clancy.
Clancy, replied Gallagher. Clancy, what part of Ireland are you from,
what county—