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By
A.
M.
I
IAN
AVER
Of
Hambuiyer
Distillery
Pittshurgh.
Pa.
Rye
whisky
and
wry
faces
do
not
go
together.
Sit
down
at
home,
at
the
chib or
cafe,
and
when
the
choice,
mild,
mellow,
and
matured
rye
whisky
is
served,
you
see
before
you
the
finest
drink
man
is
capable
of
distilling
from
grain.
You
smile
in
con-
templation,
and
comprehend
how
the
expression
arose,
"Give
me
a
smile,"
meaning
a
drink,
around
which
clusters
only
smile,
laughter
and
joyousness,
the
good
story
brimful
of
wit
and
humor
and
laughter.
One
can
understand
why
the
sah'ation
lassies
get
their
best
ijickings
from
the
lovers
of
rye.
One
recalls
Bobby
Burns
and
his
sweet
songs
of
the
rye
fields,
taught
us
in
childhood's
happy
hours.
Was
it
not
r>i.s-
marck,
the
greatest
statesman
of
the
nineteenth
century,
and
himself
the
proprietor
of
a
distillery,
who
remarked,
"B.eer
is
for
women,
wine
fin-
men,
and
rye
for
heroes."
In
our
country,
with
its
rush
and
bustle
and
perpendicular
drinking,
one
finds
that
some
men
do
not
understand
the
fine
art of
eating
and
drinking
and
living.
You
sometimes
see
such
a
man
rush
up
to
the
bar,
order
a
fine
old
rye,
gulp
it
down,
take
some
water,
and
rush
out
again.
That
is
like
turning
somersaults
in
church—
it
is
a
sacrilege.
Oh,
no,
my
friend;
that
is
not
the
way
to
do.
Don't
start
a
conflagration
in
your
stomach
and
then
start
the
fire
department
after
it.
Perpen-
dictular
drinking
leads
to
oblique
vision.
The
right
way
is
to
greet
King Rye
with
ceremony,
rever-
ence
and
affection,
which
his
age,
his
strength,
his
spirit,
his
purity
and
his
birth
demand.
Treat
him
right
and
he
will
see
that
you
are
treated
right;
alnise
him
and
he
will
see
that
you
suft'er.
He
permits
you
to
look
into
nature's
mirror.
The
law
of
comijensation
holds
fast—
"whatever you
do
to
him
you
do
to
yourself."
Sit
down,
my
friend,
and
ask
for
a
choice
real
old
rye,
a
nectar
fit
for
the
gods.
Pour
it
slowly;
feast
your
eyes
on
its
golden
hues.
Is
it
the
golden
fleece
for
which
the
argonauts
of
old
strived?
Inhale
its
exquisite
aroma;
enjoy
its
superb
bou-
quet;
it
In-ings
to
the
mind's
eye
the
smiling
rye
fields,
the
rye
waving
joyously
in
the
sun,
and
the
troop
of
happy
children
passing
through.
Look
again,
and
the
liquid
amber,
coupled
with
the
word
Monongahela,
bring
remembrances
of
George