That Mr. Andrew Volstead, a noted resident of a middle western city, has been forced to disconnect his telephone and substitute a private line whose number is known only to his trusted and less humorous friends, is by no means strange. During the day and night, according to the well-known legislator, the line has been busy with calls from travelling citizens who on finding themselves in his city, have seen fit to force upon him their opinions of the law which bears his name. Those who have suffered from strange greetings over the wire on April Fool's day alone, will realize the feelings of one who is likely to be aroused at any time of the night to hear drunken gurglings and witticisms, doubtless hinging about some such phrase as "you're all wet."

That he foresaw such fame on the fated day when he gave his name to the Eighteenth amendment is doubtful. He was after all, no more responsible for its enactment than many millions who had voted for it, and much less responsible that those who had led in the agitation; and, in proposing the measure, he was only echoing the sentiments of his constituents. These considerations, however, avail nothing with those who, having found liquor in the Mecca of the dry, feel that to telephone Mr. Volstead would be the cream of the jest. He must by now have tested the meaning of the poet who mentioned the repose of those who sink to rest by all their country's wishes blessed; and among the long list of those who consider themselves the chief sufferers from Prohibition, the name of Andrew J. Volstead should take high, if not the highest, rank.