Emeralds
Hospital Physician—Which ward do you wish to be taken to? A pay ward or a—
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.
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.
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.
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—
I am from County Mayo.
County Mayo, continued the traffic officer, County Mayo, say Clancy, stay here just a minute till I go head to that big car and see why in the devil he backed into you.
The following anecdote is illustrative of eviction days in Ireland. Pat had served part of his time as a bricklayer in the old country. On arrival in America, he was watching some bricklayers at work when the foreman observed him:
Can they do it as quick as that in Ireland, Pat?
They can indeed, and twice as quick, answered Pat.
Do you know, said the foreman, that we start a house here in the morning and it’s finished and a tenant in it before evening.
That’s all you can do, is it? Well, said Pat, in Ireland we start a house in the morning and the landlord is evicting the tenant for back rent before evening.
Strange as it may seem, there is a public man in this city who is blessed or cursed with a tender conscience that worries him in small matters as well as in great. Among the things that he cannot justify to himself is the bidding a servant to say he is not at home when, in reality, he is inside his house. At the same time he is not able to receive the many visitors who call upon him, and his only recourse was to give instructions that polite excuses should be given to a maid, an Irish girl, gifted with the readiness and good-will of her nation.
Then I’m to be saying, sir, that you’re not at home? the maid inquired.
No, Mary, no! was the reply; that would not be true. If anyone should ask for me, you must just put him off—give him some evasive answer, you know.
I’ll do it, sir, never fear, was the maid’s reply. Mary was as good as her word.
That afternoon a person of importance made his appearance, and was duly sent away. The faithful maid reported the circumstance to her employer.
What did you do, Mary? inquired the latter with some trepidation.
Oh, I just put him off, sir, as you told me. I gave him an evasive answer.
Yes, but what did you say to him?
Oh, sure, he axed me if the boss was at home, and I said to him, was his grandmother a monkey?
There were some deficiencies in the early education of Mrs. Donahoe, but she never mentioned them or admitted their existence.
Will you sign your name here? said the young lawyer whom Mrs. Donahoe had asked to draw up a deed transferring a parcel of land to her daughter.
You sign it yoursilf an I’ll make me mark, said the old woman, quickly. Since me eyes gave out I’m not able to write a wurrd, young man.
How do you spell it? he asked, pen poised above the proper space.
Spell it what iver way you plaze, said Mrs. Donahoe, recklessly. Since I lost me teeth there’s not a wurrd in the wurrld I can spell.
A story is going the rounds in the court house of an Irishman who recently went before Judge Stephens to be naturalized.
Have you read the Declaration of Independence? the Court asked.
I hov not, said Pat.
Have you read the Constitution of the United States?
I hov not, your honer.
Judge Stephens looked sternly at the applicant and asked:
Well, what have you read?
Patrick hesitated but the fraction of a second before replying:
I hov red hairs on me neck, yer honor.