'Whose thrick
is that?' says th' Tipp'rary Mickrobe. ''Tis mine,' says th'
red-headed Mickrobe fr'm th' County Roscommon. They tipped over th'
chairs an' tables: an', in less time thin it takes to tell, th' whole
party was at it. They'd been a hurlin' game in th' back iv me skull,
an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin' leppin' matches
in me forehead; but they all stopped to mix in. Oh, 'twas a grand
shindig--tin millions iv men, women, an' childher rowlin' on th'
flure, hands an' feet goin', ice-picks an' hurlin' sticks, clubs,
brickbats, an' beer kags flyin' in th' air! How manny iv thim was kilt
I niver knew; f'r I wint as daft as a hen, an' dhreamt iv organizin' a
Mickrobe Campaign Club that 'd sweep th' prim'ries, an' maybe go acrost
an' free Ireland. Whin I woke up, me legs was as weak as a day old
baby's, an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. I want no more iv
thim. Give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle save an' excipt
thim West iv Ireland Fenians, th' Mickrobes."
LEXOW.
"This here wave iv rayform," said Mr.
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