BUSYBODIES
Busybodies are mostly of the female persuasion, wid an’ occasional parson of the milk and water type thrown in. They’re to be found ivery place, except at home mindin’ their own business. They’re always doin’ something that don’t need to be done, an’ lavin’ alone their own affairs, which generally need attendin’ to. They’re the folks referred to in the prayer book as “poor miserable sinners.” They’re always goin’ off half-cocked about somethin’ they don’t know anything about. I’ll warrant ye there’s not wan of them who are tryin’ to pass the law to electrocute ye if ye smoke cigarettes what ever had a whiff of a cigarette. Poor blind creatures; they can’t see. I don’t use cigareets meself as a steady diet, but I’ll wager there’s them that takes as much pleasure out of a cigareet as Oi do frum me pipe, widout a divil a bit more harum.
The cigareet gets credit fur doin’ harum it never done at all, at all. Fer example, some good old busybody has a son that she’s kept tied to her apron strings till he’s nearly a man. She sinds him to college. There the lad, who is not bad, but only a fool, cuts loose entirely, hits it up iviry night, drowns thots of his unhappy home in booze, gets to know all the giddy girls in town, is up all night playin’ tin cent limit, thinkin’ he’s a real spoort. An’ along wid these things he smokes cigareets. When he comes home they have to call in the doctor, an’ the old busybody tells the doctor that the lad is killin’ himself wid cigareets. Nivir a word about the booze, an’ the wimin, an’ the late hours; oh, no. She knows nuthin’ of all this. Then she puts on her bonnet an’ goes to see all her cronies, an’ a bunch of thim comes along to Ottawa to legislate agin the cigareet.
I tell ye legislation kin niver protect the fool from his foolishness. If ye are a fool, begob, ye must suffer fer it.
I saw two good fer nuthin’ Italians on the street to-day makin’ a livin’ out of peradin’ about a couple of mangy bears, beatin’ the poor dumb creatures wid a pole to make thim turn summersalts agin all nature. There’s somethin’ fer the busybodies to think on fer a while. Make a law kapin’ out from this country all such varmints that’s good fer nuthin’ to no wan. Am Oi right, Oi’m askin’ ye?
If ye left the busybodies alone, begorrah, we’d have niver a drink, niver a smoke, nor niver a dance wid the gurls. ’Tis horrible to contemplate. They’d pass a law agin’ everything. Sure, if they can pass this law agin the cigareet they’ll fally it up wid a law measurin’ yer food to prevint ye atin’ too much, a law to boost ye out of bed in time fer church, a law to prevint yer wife frum lacin’ too tight; an’ I can tell ye if they do this last, all me pull goes to get me the job of “Inspector of the Tension of Corsets.”
Give the meddlers half a chantz an’ be hivins the government will have to hire half of us to inspect the other half. ’Twill be like this:—Wan of the kids will wake up in the middle of yer beauty sleep yellin’, “Hurry up pa, and get up; there’s foive inspectors in the kitchen waitin’ fer ye to sign their papers. One’s vaccinatin’ the cook, one’s examinin’ brother Moike on the Shorter Catechism, one’s fumigatin’ the cat, an’ the other two is waitin’ to search the house fer cigareet papers.”
A law is a funny thing. It is not only in the way it is expected to act; but also in the ways that no wan cud foresee.