I noticed one man, evidently a city employe, in a rough
white suit, busily cleaning the street with a broom and
singing to himself: "How does the little busy bee improve
the shining hour." Another employe, who was handling a
little hose, was singing, "Little drops of water, little
grains of sand, Tra, la, la, la, _la_ la, Prohibition's
grand."
"Why do they sing?" I asked. "Are they crazy?"
"Sing?" said Mr Narrowpath. "They can't help it. They
haven't had a drink of whisky for four months."
A coal cart went by with a driver, no longer grimy and
smudged, but neatly dressed with a high white collar and
a white silk tie.
My companion pointed at him as he passed.
"Hasn't had a glass of beer for four months," he said.
"Notice the difference. That man's work is now a pleasure
to him. He used to spend all his evenings sitting round
in the back parlours of the saloons beside the stove.
Now what do you think he does?"
"I have no idea."
"Loads up his cart with coal and goes for a drive--out
in the country. Ah, sir, you who live still under the
curse of the whisky traffic little know what a pleasure
work itself becomes when drink and all that goes with it
is eliminated.
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