"I niver cud quite make it out," said Mr. Dooley. "I've heerd tell that years ago, befure th' fire or th' war, some wan had an idee in his foolish head that they was a gran' sea up there with blue wather dimplin' in th' moonlight an' cocynut threes growin' on th' shore an' if a man cud on'y get in with his boat, he cud sail around th' wurruld an' fetch up in Chiny. That idee blew up an' thin some wan said 'twud be a fine thing f'r science if a white man cud get to th' North Pole. What he'd do if he got there no wan has anny thought. Accordin' to what I hear, th' North Pole ain't like a tillygraft pole, a barber pole, a fishin' pole, a clothes pole, a poll-tax, a Maypole, a Russhyan Pole, or annything that ye can see, smell or ate. Whin ye get to it, it is no diff'rent fr'm bein' annywhere on th' ice. Th' on'y way ye know ye're there is be consultin' a pocket arithmetic, a watch an' a compass. Don't get it into ye'er head that if me frind Baldwin or Peary iver wint north iv Milwaukee an' come acrost th' North Pole they'd carve their names on it or hist a flag over it or bring it home with thim on a thruck an' set it up on th' lake front. Th' north pole is a gigantic column iv cold air, some says hot, an' an enthusyastic explorer that wasn't lookin' where he wint might pass right through it without knowin'. "In th' arly days whin an explorer wint off to find th' Pole, he bought himsilf a sheepskin coat, a couple iv dogs, a pair iv skates, an' a bottle iv pickled onions an' set out bravely, an' th' people watched th' fam'ly to see what other form th' lunacy wud take. Afther awhile he ayether come back or he didn't. Sometimes th' Esqueemo lady didn't care to lave her pleasant home in th' land iv perpetchool blubber an' in that case th' hardy mariner remained in th' frozen north. I niver cud see th' advantages iv life in th' Artic regions. 'Tis thrue th' nights is six months long an' sleep is wan iv th' spoorts that age hasn't deprived me iv. It mus' be a gr-reat counthry f'r burglars. But f'r a plain wurrukin' man it's very thryin'. Think iv a six months' wurrukin' day. Ye get ye'er breakfast at sun-up in March an' ye don't set down to dinner till th' first iv June. Thin comes a long afthernoon an' I tell ye whin th' whistle blows at six o'clock October, it's a welcome sound it sinds to ye'er ears. Ye go home an' all th' childher has growed up an' th' news in th' mornin' pa-per is six months' old. Ye lie around readin' an' playin' cards f'r a month or two an' thin ye yawn an' set th' alarm clock f'r March an' says: 'Mah, it's th' fifteenth iv Novimber an' time th' childher was abed,' an' go to sleep. About Christmas th' good woman wakes ye up to look f'r th' burglar an' afther ye've paddled around in th' ice floe f'r a week, ye climb back into bed grumblin' an' go to sleep again. Afther awhile ye snore an' th' wife iv ye'er bosom punches ye. 'What time is it?' says ye. 'It's a quarther past