A Cure for the Irish Trouble

"What is it that do be troublin'
Dublin in these sad times?" said
Michael Madigan. "Sorra's the day
whin I wouldn't be goin' to the school
whin I was a lad in the ould dart.
'Tis little I did be missin' the schoolin'
till this news did be comin' through
in the paapers wid the sad doin's in
ould Ireland. Ah, whirra the day!
What is it that do be troublin' Dub-
lin?"

"The papers do be sayin'," replied
his friend, "that the Irish is at
ut fightin' bechune thimselves."

"Bechune thimselves," cried Madi-
gan. "Don't be tellin' me they've
killed all the English!"

"They have not," replied the other.
"The English do be standin' by an'
watchin' the fun, while the Irish fights
bechune thimselves wid guns an'
bombs."

"Wid guns an' bombs," sighed the
old man. "Arrah! I'd like to have me
hand on the man who first put a gun
into the hands iv the Irish D'ye think
it ud be that Spanish bull fighter,
a Valeery? The back iv me hand to
that man!"

"They do be still fightin' wid
bombs, an' wid mines, too, bad cess
to ut," replied his friend.

"Ah, sorrra the day," cried Michael
Madigan. "Wasn't Limerick good
enough for thim? Manny's the time
I've seen me ould father come home
from the fair wid the head iv him
cracked open. For it was shticks they
used in thim days; an' shticks do be
the rale weapons iv the Irish race.
Have they run out iv good black-
thorn, think ye, that they do be takin'
to thim guns?"

"The Lord knows," answered his
friend. "I see no mention iv shticks
in the papers."

Old Michael Madigan sucked at his
pipe and thought for a space.

"I do be wondhrin'," he said; "I do
be wondhrin' shudn't we be sendin'
thim some iv the fine shticks out iv the
bush here. A fine big shipmint iv
thim blue-gum an' messmate saplins
grown beyant there might work a
miracle in poor ould Ireland. It
It's them guns do be troublin' Dublin.
Ah, sorra's the day!"