the fine old days when brave men and
lovely women sat down at the same table with a glass of wine, or a mug
of ale, and no one thought any the worse. I would ask you to remember
the color of the wine in the goblet, how it caught the light, how
merrily it twinkled with beaded bubbles winking at the brim, as some
poet has observed. If I wanted to harrow you, gentlemen, I would recall
to you little tables, little round tables, set out under the trees on
the lawn of some country inn, where the enchanting music of harp and
fiddle twangled on the summer air, where great bowls of punch chimed
gently as the lumps of ice knocked on the thin crystal. The little
tables were spread tinder the trees, and then, later on, perhaps, the
customers were spread under the tables.--I would ask you to recall the
manly seidel of dark beer as you knew it, the bitter chill of it as it
went down, the simple felicity it induced in the care-burdened mind. I
could quote to you poet after poet who has nourished his song upon
honest malt liquor. I need only think of Mr. Masefield, who has put
these manly words in the mouth of his pirate mate:

Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French,
And some'll swallow tea and stuff fit only for a wench,
But I'm for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench!

Oh some are fond of fiddles and a song well sung,
And some are all for music for to lilt upon the tongue;
But mouths were made for tankards, and for sucking at the bung!"

This apparently artless oratory was beginning to have its effect. Loud
huzzas filled the hall. These touching words had evoked wistful
memories hidden deep in every heart. Old wounds were reopened and bled
afresh.

Again Quimbleton had to call for silence.

"I will recite to you," he said, "a ditty that I have composed myself.
It is called A Chanty of Departed Spirits."

In a voice tremulous with emotion he began:

The earth is grown puny and pallid,
The earth is grown gouty and gray,
For whiskey no longer is valid
And wine has been voted away--
As for beer, we no longer will swill it
In riotous rollicking spree;
The little hot dogs in the skillet
Will have to be sluiced down with tea.

O ales that were creamy like lather!
O beers that were foamy like suds!
O fizz that I loved like a father!
O fie on the drinks that are duds!
I sat by the doors that were slatted
And