Ned Doyle slips.

 19 March 1902

(With spelling and grammar untouched by the editor’s hand.)

“Boot,” I shouted at the Rebbe, “covvy-net or not, yer still cootin’ a wee bairn’s paenis oof. Wut kindoov man, air ye?”

Joost then, es emberrysing as it ‘twere, the dour knooks ooopen and in cooomes the Rebbe’s niece, who I hae’ talked aboot before.

“Woot is gooing oon here?” asks Malka, “I hae been hearing noothing boot alterating larfing and screaming?”

“Ye ooncle,” sez I, “is noothing boot a unmentionable schnipper. He cooots the end oof oov yung bairns!”

Again, the Rebbe commencerates to larfing.

“Ooov course tha’ is wha he dooz. He ezza mohel and it is a religious rittchy-rol.”

“A mohel? Whoo cares hoo far he lives frum his vickytims? He coots the tips a’ thar manhood with a implee-ment of tur-cher.”

“A mohel!” sez she. “Nut a moil. A mohel. Nut a distance like a moil, a ritchy-rol involving the brit-milah, the covvy-net of circus-cision.”

Malka, I moost say, Dear Diary, cood explain to me horse manooer oon a sour pickle and make it sooond appey-tizing. She looked a’ me with her big brooon eyes, “Doon y’ oonderstan?” she said.

“Ah ah, well I do-do-doon know,” stutters I.

“It is noothin berberic,” sez she. “Yer Laird, Jeesus Christ wuz snipped th’ same way. And Ooncle Rebbe gives the bairn soom wine and the tip snips oof like water oof a dooks beck.”

Tha phrase, Dear Diary, ‘the tip snips oof like water oof a dooks beck,’ it fairly sends me a squaerming in the mid-seckshun a’ me  torso. Boot then, I wuz bewitched by Malka’s orbsa brun anni coona protest n’more.

“Issa noo diffrent frum doonkin’ a bairn en water, ez yoo do,” sez Malka.

“Aye, boot bein’ wet dun lasta loiftime, now do it? Whereas the snippin’ a the schmeckl.”

An thar, Dear Dairy, I disgraced me’self, sayin’ a narsty word like schmeckl in frunna a laidy like Malka. Boot, insteada she slappin’ me in me face, she bursts oot larfin’, Dear Diary. Here is whar I stoop fer tha e’een.