“Water’s all on the outside—can’t none get in nohow?”
“Captain,” said Hendricks, decidedly, “I want one o’ them compartments—I don’t care what it costs extry.”
Senator Jim Nye of Nebraska tells this story to illustrate some of the evils of prohibition. The Senator said, apropos of his visit to a “dry” town.
“After a long speech and then talking to all the magnates of the neighborhood, I went to bed dry as a powder horn. I could not sleep and as soon as it was daylight I went down into the dining room: As I sat there the mistress of the house came in and said ’Senator, you are up early.’ I said: ’Yes, living in the West so long, I am afflicted with malaria, and I could not sleep.’ She went over to a tea caddy, took out a bottle and said: ’Senator, this is a prohibition town, you know, but we have malaria and we find this a good antidote. I know it will do you good.’”
The Senator seized the bottle with avidity and thankfulness. He settled again in his seat by the window, more in harmony with the world. Then the head of the house came in and said: “Senator, you are up early.” He replied: “Yes, malaria, you know.” “Well,” said the old gentleman, “we have a cure for that. This is a prohibition town; it is good thing for our work people; but I have a little safety in my locker,” and he produced a bottle.
After the old gentleman left the two sons came in and said: “Senator, are you fond of livestock?” The Senator by that time was fond of everything and everybody. He said: “Yes, I love livestock, I have plenty of it on my ranch.” They said: “Come out to the barn and we will show you some.” They took him out to the barn, closed the doors, and said: “Senator, we know you must have had a hard time last night. We have no livestock but we have a bottle in the haymow.” Senator Nye then said:
“The trouble with a prohibition town is that when you most need it you can’t get it, and when it does come it is like a Western flood, too much of it.”
Eugene was a very mischievous little boy and his mother’s patience was worn to the limit. She had spoken very nicely to him several times without effect. Finally she said:
“You are a perfect little heathen!”
“Do you mean it?” demanded Eugene.
“Indeed, I do,” said the mother.
“Then, mother,” said the boy, “why can’t I keep that ten cents a week you gimme for the Sunday-school collection? I guess I’m as hard up as any of the rest of ’em.”
When Paderewski was on his last visit to America he was in a Boston suburb, when he was approached by a bootblack who called: