Very dreadful, not a doubt. Alcohol is doomed; it is
going it is gone. Yet when I think of a hot Scotch on a
winter evening, or a Tom Collins on a summer morning, or
a gin Rickey beside a tennis-court, or a stein of beer
on a bench beside a bowling-green--I wish somehow that
we could prohibit the use of alcohol and merely drink
beer and whisky and gin as we used to. But these things,
it appears, interfere with work. They have got to go.
But turn to the broader and simpler question of _work_
itself. In my time one hated it. It was viewed as the
natural enemy of man. Now the world has fallen in love
with it. My friends, I find, take their deep breathing
and their porch sleeping because it makes them work
better. They go for a week's vacation in Virginia not
for its own sake, but because they say they can work
better when they get back. I know a man who wears very
loose boots because he can work better in them: and
another who wears only soft shirts because he can work
better in a soft shirt. There are plenty of men now who
would wear dog-harness if they thought they could work
more in it. I know another man who walks away out into
the country every Sunday: not that he likes the country
--he wouldn't recognize a bumble bee if he saw it--but
he claims that if he walks on Sunday his head is as clear
as a bell for work on Monday.
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