Prosperity grabs ivry man be th' neck, an'
sets him shovellin' slag or coke or runnin' up an' down a ladder with
a hod iv mortar. It won't let th' wurruld rest. If Humanity 'd been
victoryous, no wan 'd iver have to do a lick again to th' end iv his
days. But Prosperity's a horse iv another color. It goes round like a
polisman givin' th' hot fut to happy people that are snoozin' in th'
sun. 'Get up,' says Prosperity. 'Get up, an' hustle over to th'
rollin' mills: there's a man over there wants ye to carry a ton iv
coal on ye'er back.' 'But I don't want to wurruk,' says th' lad. 'I'm
very comfortable th' way I am.' 'It makes no difference,' says
Prosperity. 'Ye've got to do ye'er lick. Wurruk, f'r th' night is
comin'. Get out, an' hustle. Wurruk, or ye can't be unhappy; an', if
th' wurruld isn't unhappy, they'se no such a thing as Prosperity.'
"That's wan thing I can't understand," Mr. Dooley went on. "Th'
newspapers is run be a lot iv gazabos that thinks wurruk is th'
ambition iv mankind. Most iv th' people I know 'd be happiest layin'
on a lounge with a can near by, or stretchin' thimsilves f'r another
nap at eight in th' mornin'.
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