And they certainly bring it. Meanwhile, the propaganda of the Puritans goes on--or, rather, the impropaganda; for it is not true that people are behaving themselves. There is just as much discontent and disorder among westerners as among easterners, so the Young-Old Philosopher observed. But in cities like Omaha, which is about in the center of the country, there is a dryness which is depressing. Passing through a hotel corridor one day at noon, the Young-Old Philosopher heard male voices, chanting in unison. He stepped to the open door of a private dining-room, and was much amused to see a group of forty or fifty solid business men, all wearing little badges proclaiming their allegiance to some organization or other, standing about the tables, lifting high their glasses of water, and shouting these words: “With the _feed_ on the _ta_-bull, And a good song _ring_-ing clear!” There was a desperate attempt at gaiety, a look in the eye of each prospective luncheoner which seemed to say, “We _will_ have a good time--in spite of Prohibition!” But my friend turned away at this travesty on mirth and good fellowship. He wondered if Richard Hovey was not turning in his grave at the cruel editing of his deathless “Stein Song,” and he counted it a pity that pewter mugs had been superseded by ice-water goblets; and he saw that Gopher Prairie was indeed a dreadful reality. Not that he would have wished to see the law disobeyed. He merely deprecated the tragic fact that this was the pass we had come to; this was the drab social order we had definitely arrived at. He went disconsolately down the hallway, brooding of all those ancient poets who had held it no shame to sing of the vine and the flowing bowl. No one had ever written a song in praise of food. And he thought if Hovey could be edited, soon the Bible itself would hear the snip-snip of the shears, as certain boisterous passages were cut out; and as for poor old Omar, he wondered how soon it would be before he was paraphrased by the reformers somewhat in this manner: Here with a little Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Milk, a Book of Verse--and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness-- Ah! Paradise were Wilderness enow. And of course quatrains like this would soon be omitted from all editions: Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare? A Blessing, we should use it, should we not? And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there?