Christopher Morley - In The Sweet Dry And Dry

From the behavior of the plane it was evident that some curious atmospheric condition was prevailing. There seemed to be a large hole or pocket in the air, and in spite of his best efforts the pilot was unable to get on even wing. Finally, fearing to lapse into a tail spin, he planed down to make a landing. Beneath them was a beautiful green lawn surrounded by groves of trees. In the middle of this lawn they struck gently, taxied across the smooth turf, and came to a stop beneath a splendid oak. Quimbleton assisted his wife to get out, and they sat down for a few minutes'

rest under the tree.

"What a heavenly spot!" cried Theodolinda, "I wonder where we are?"

"Somewhere in New Jersey," said her husband. "I don't understand what was the matter with the air. It didn't act according to

Hoyle."

They gazed about them in some surprise at the opulent beauty of the scene. It seemed to be a kind of park, laid out in lawns, gardens and shrubbery, with groves of old trees here and there. A

little artificial lake twinkled in a hollow.

They happened to be gazing upward when a small round ball of tawny color fell from the tree. It was a robin. Folded solidly for sleep, he fell unresisting by the flutter of a wing, turning over and over gently until he struck the turf with the tiniest of soft thuds. He bounced slightly, rolled a little distance, and settled motionless in the grass.

Quimbleton, amazed, stooped over the fallen bird, supposing it to be dead. Without lifting it from the ground he withdrew its head from under its wing. The bright eye unlidded and gazed at him sleepily. Then the bird closed its eye with a certain weary resignation, put its head back under its wing, and relaxed comfortably in the grass.

Quimbleton was no very acute student of nature, but this seemed very odd to him. And then, examining the lower limbs of the tree, he uttered an exclamation. He swung himself up into the oak and shook one of the branches. Five other birds plopped comfortably into the grass and rested as easily as the first. He examined them one by one. They were all sound asleep.

"Most amazing!" he said. "My dear, we will have to take up nature study. I am really ashamed of my ignorance. I always thought that owls were the only birds that slept by day."

Theodolinda was looking at the five small bodies. She raised one of them gently, and sniffed gingerly.

"Virgil," she said solemnly, "this is not mere slumber. These birds are drunk!"

Quimbleton was about to speak when a grasshopper went by like an airplane, zooming in a twenty-foot leap. A bee sagged along heavily in an irregular zig-zag, and a caterpillar, more agile and purposeful than any caterpillar they had ever seen, staggered swiftly across a carpet of moss.

The same thought struck them simultaneously, and at that moment

Theodolinda noticed a small white signboard affixed to a treetrunk in the grove. They ran to it, and saw in neat lettering:

TO THE PERPETUAL SOUSE, ONE MILE

"Bless me!" cried Quimbleton. "What a stroke of luck! You know old

Bleak wrote us when we were in Rio that he had been installed in his temple, but he didn't say where it was. Let's toddle up and have a look at him. That's why the bus acted so queerly. No wonder: we were probably flying in alcohol vapor."

They walked through the grove and emerged upon a lawn that sloped gently upward. At the brow stood a beautiful little temple of

Greek architecture. As they approached they read, carved into the marble architrave:

AEDES TEMULENTI PERPETUI

E PLURIBUS UNUM

The little porch, under the marble columns, was cool and shady. A

signboard said: Visiting Hours, Noon to Midnight. Quimbleton looked at his watch. "It's not noon yet," he said, "but as we're old friends I dare say he'll be willing to see us."

Pushing through a slatted swinging door of beautifully carved bronze, they found themselves in a charmingly furnished reference library. There were lounges and deep leather chairs, and ash trays for smokers. Quimbleton, who was something of a bookworm, ran his eye along the shelves. "A very neat idea," he said. "They have collected a little library of all the standard works on drink.

This should be of great value to future historians and researchers."

Through another swinging door they found the central shrine.

It was circular in shape, illuminated through a clear skylight.

Under the rotunda was a low, broad marble counter, surmounted by a gleaming mirror and a noble array of bottles, flasks, decanters, goblets and glasses of every size. The pale yellow of white wines, the ruby of claret, the tawny brown of port, the green and violet and rose of various liqueurs, sparkled in their appointed vessels.

In front of this altar stood a three-foot mahogany bar, with its scrolled rim and diminutive brass rail, all complete. A red velvet cord hung from brass posts separated it from the open floor.

A series of mural paintings, in the vivid coloring and superb technique of Maxfield Parrish, adorned the walls of the room. They portrayed the history of Alcohol from the dawn of time down to the summer of 1919. A space for one more painting was left blank, and

Mr. and Mrs. Quimbleton concluded that the artist was still at work upon the final panel.

An attendant in white was polishing glasses behind the tiny bar.

He was an elderly man with a pink clean-shaven face and the initials P. S. were embroidered on the collar of his starched jacket. There was an air of evident pride in his bearing as he listened to their exclamations of admiration.

"Your first visit, sir?" he said.

"Yes," said Quimbleton. "I must confess I had no idea it would be as fine as this. What time does Mr. Bleak get in?"

"He usually opens up with a nip of Scotch about eleven-thirty,"

said the bartender. "Just so as to get up a little circulation before opening time. He's got a hard afternoon before him to-day,"

he added.

"How do you mean?" said Quimbleton.

"One of the excursion trains coming. The railroad runs cheap excursions here three days a week, and the crowds is enormous.

When there's a bunch like that there's always a lot wants Mr.

Bleak to take some special drink they used to be partial to, just to recall old times. Of course, being what you might call a servant of the public, he doesn't like not to oblige. But I doubt whether he's got the constitution to stand it long. The other day the Mint Julep Veterans of Kentucky held a memorial day here, and

Mr. Bleak had to sink fifteen juleps to satisfy them. I tell him not to push himself too far, but he's still pretty new at the job.

He likes to go over the top every day."

"Your face is very familiar," said Theodolinda. "Where have we seen you before?"

"I wondered if you'd recognize me," said the bartender. "I've shaved off my mustache. I'm Jerry Purplevein. When I was turned down in that election I thought this would be the next best thing.

As a matter of fact, it's better. I don't really care for the stuff; I just like to see it around. Miss Absinthe felt the same way. She's head stewardess up to the Hostess House."

"It seems to me I used to see you somewhere in New York," said

Quimbleton.

"I was head bar at the Hotel Pennsylvania," said Jerry. "We had the finest bar in the world, had only been running a couple of months when prohibition come in. They turned it into a soda fountain. Ah, that was a tragedy! But this is a grand job.

Government service, you see: sure pay, tony surroundings, and what you might call steady custom. Mr. Bleak is as nice a gentleman to mix 'em for as I ever see."

"But what is this for?" asked Theodolinda, pointing to a beautiful marble cash register. "Surely Mr. Bleak doesn't have to BUY his drinks?"

"No, ma'am," said Jerry, "but he likes to have 'em rung up same as customary. He says it makes it seem more natural. Here he is now!"