Mulla and his young son were driving in the country one winter. It was snowing. It grew late. They finally reached a farmhouse and were welcomed for the night. The house was cold, and the attic they were to sleep in was like an icebox. Stripping to his underwear, the Mulla jumped into a featherbed and pulled the blankets over his head. The young man was slightly embarrassed. “Excuse me, Dad,” he said, “don’t you think we ought to say our prayers before going to bed?” The Mulla stuck one eye out from under the covers. “Son,” he said, “I keep prayed up in advance for situations just like this one.”