But there are people who cry out against prohibition that you cannot make men moral, or sober, by law. But that is exactly what you can do. The greatest value a law has is its moral value. It is the silent pressure of the law on public opinion which gives it its greatest value. The punishment for the infringement of the law is not its only way of impressing itself on the people. It is the moral impact of a law that changes public sentiment, and to say that you cannot make men sober by law is as foolish as to say you cannot keep cattle from destroying the wheat by building a fence between them and it, or to claim you cannot make a crooked twig grow straight by tying it straight. Humanity can do anything it wants to do. There is no limit to human achievement. Whoever declares that things cannot be done which are for the betterment of the race, insults the Creator of us all, who is not willing that any should perish, but that all should live and live abundantly. CHAPTER XI AS A MAN THINKETH When the valley is brimming with sunshine, And the Souris, limpid and clear, Slips over its shining pebbles And the harvest time draws near, The heart of the honest plowman Is filled with content and cheer! It is only the poor, rich farmer Whose heart is heavy with dread, When over the smiling valley The mantle of harvest is spread; "For the season," he says, "is backward And the grain is only in head!" The hired man loves the twilight When the purple hills grow dim, And he smiles at the glittering blackbirds Which round him circle and skim; His road is embroidered with sunflowers That lazily nod at him! But the rich man's heart is heavy, With gloom and fear opprest; For he knows the red-winged blackbird As an evil-minded pest, And the golden brown-eyed sunflower Is only a weed, at best! When the purple rain-clouds gather And a mist comes over the hills, A peace beyond all telling The hired man's bosom fills, And the long, long sleep in the morning His heart with rapture fills. But the rich man's heart is heavy With gloom and fear of loss, When the purple clouds drop moisture On field and flower and moss; It's all very well for the plowman, But it's not well at all for the "Boss." When the moonlight lies on the valley And into the hayloft streams, Where the humble laborer snoreth And dreameth his peaceful dreams; It silvers his slumbering fancies With the witchery of its beams. But the poor rich man is restless, For his heart is on his sheaves; And the moonlight, cold and cloudless, For him no fancy weaves, For the glass is falling, falling, And the grain will surely freeze!