the world he likes, and I’ll send there the kind of human beans he’d wish most for. Now, give your ordher,’ he says to me, taking out his book and pencil, ‘and I’ll make for you the kind of people you’d like to live among.’
“ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘I’d like the men honest and brave, and the women good.’
“ ‘Very well,’ he says, writing it down; ‘I’ve got that—go on.’
“ ‘And I’d like them full of jollity and sport, fond of racing and singing and hunting and fighting, and all such innocent divarsions.’
“ ‘You’ll have no complaint about that,’ says he.
“ ‘And,’ says I, ‘I’d like them poor and parsecuted, bekase when a man gets rich there’s no more fun in him.’
“ ‘Yes, I’ll fix that. Thrue for you,’ says the Angel Gabriel, writing.
“ ‘And I don’t want them to be Christians,’ says I; ‘make them Haythens or Pagans, for Christians are too much worried about the Day of Judgment.’
“ ‘Stop there! Say no more!’ says the saint. ‘If I make as fine a race of people as that I won’t send them to hell to plaze you, Brian Connors.’
