“That coffin was going as freight to the last resting-place, and it made me realize that I was going by express to the same place. Beside it stood an undertaker—one of those melancholy individuals with black burnsides and a long chin. He looked at me, and I thought he was saying: ‘Come on, old man! This is what rum is bringing you to. Give me the job.’” “I knew right there that I must decide between that coffin and a barrel of apples.” There came upon him a fierce craving to brace his nerves with some of the whiskey in his bag. He ran through the ship praying as fervently as a drowning man for some saving straw. He saw the deaf man with the Baldwin apple, and he ran to the fruit like a hunted animal—eager to bite into it and to ease his heated tongue against its sour juice. Since I first heard the story I have investigated many cases, and have never found a heavy drinker who was at the same time a large consumer of raw apples. And I have run upon several cases where sour apples eaten freely have safely tided men past the desire to drink. Surely a prohibition country must be one flowing with milk and apples! We founded the Apple Consumers’ League largely on that theory. Something over twenty-five years ago I was lunching at a New York restaurant. There was a bumper apple crop that year, and a poor sale for it. Looking over the bill of fare, I found oranges, prunes and bananas, and an idea struck me. “Bring me a baked apple.” “We ain’t got none.” “What, no baked apples? I thought this was an American place.” “Sorry, boss, but we ain’t got none.” By this time everyone within fifty feet was listening. Soon came an anxious-looking man, rubbing his hands and trying to smile. “Nothing the matter with the food, I hope.” I could not hear much that he said, and it did not matter. I did my best to deliver a public lecture on the apple, and all around me people were nodding as if to say: “I’d order one if I could get it.” The manager was impressed, and that night for supper he had “Baked Apple with Cream” written into his card in red ink. Later he came to me and asked names of varieties and where they could be found. As a result of this experiment a few of us founded the “American Apple Consumers’ League.” We pledged ourselves to call for apple in some form whenever we sat at any public table. Our declaration was cast in rhyme: Apple, apple, call for apple Everywhere you go. Closely scan the bill of fare, And if apple is not there Call the landlord down with care! He will come with smirking manner Offering the soft banana, Or the orange—be not shaken In the job you’ve undertaken. Call for apple! Call for apple! With the problem closely grapple.