I am sick of the hollow sentiment, “the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world,” insofar as it relates to the drink problem.  If the hand that rocks the cradle did rule the world, there would not be two hundred thousand rum-fiend vultures soaring over the cradle homes of our country today.  If a mother could keep her boy in the cradle she might rule the world, but the trouble is, the boy gets too big for the cradle and jumps out.  In the cradle he’s mama’s child, coos if mama coos, and laughs when mama laughs; but out of the cradle he’s papa’s boy, swears if papa swears, smokes if papa smokes, drinks if papa drinks.  If papa does none of these things, then the world, ruled by hands that don’t rock cradles, steps in with licensed schools of vice to teach him to drink.

When General Grant was President of the United States he appointed an old colored man mail-carrier over a route in the mountains of Virginia.  One day, when in a lonely spot, two robbers faced the negro and demanded the mail.  The old man, lifting himself in his saddle said: 

“Gentlemen, I is de mail-carrier of de United States; you touch dis darkey and you’ll have de whole army of dis government on you in twenty fo’ hours.”

Blessed will be the day when every mother in our land can say to the saloon:  “You touch my home and you’ll have the police power of this republic on your heels in twenty-four hours.”

But, who is the government?  We are told that in the early history of this country, a country magistrate rode horseback from Maryland to Washington to consult the government.  Going to the White House he was informed the government was not there.  At the Capitol he was informed the people are the government.  He returned home, called the voters of his county to a meeting in the courthouse and said:  “Gentlemen, I have a very important question I want to present to the government.”  So I desire to talk to the government, you voters who are to decide the policy of this republic regarding the liquor traffic.

An Irishman brought before the court for an assault upon a saloon keeper was questioned by the judge, who said:  “Mr. Dolan, what have you to say; are you guilty or innocent of the charge made against you?”

The Irishman replied:  “By me soul, judge, I couldn’t tell ye.  I was blind, stavin’ drunk on the manest whiskey ye iver tasted, yer honor.”

“I do not use whiskey of any kind,” said the judge.

“Ye don’t.  Thin I don’t think ye are doin’ yer duty by such constituents as meself.  Ye license men to sell the stuff; ye ought to taste the stuff ye license men to sell, thin ye would know how it makes a gintlemen behave himself.”

The judge rapped for order in the court and repeated the question, “Are you guilty or innocent of the charge?”