John Barleycorn HTML version
I was five years old the first time I got drunk. It was on a hot day, and my father was
ploughing in the field. I was sent from the house, half a mile away, to carry to him a pail
of beer. "And be sure you don't spill it," was the parting injunction.
It was, as I remember it, a lard pail, very wide across the top, and without a cover. As I
toddled along, the beer slopped over the rim upon my legs. And as I toddled, I pondered.
Beer was a very precious thing. Come to think of it, it must be wonderfully good. Else
why was I never permitted to drink of it in the house? Other things kept from me by the
grown-ups I had found good. Then this, too, was good. Trust the grown-ups. They knew.
And, anyway, the pail was too full. I was slopping it against my legs and spilling it on the
ground. Why waste it? And no one would know whether I had drunk or spilled it.
I was so small that, in order to negotiate the pail, I sat down and gathered it into my lap.
First I sipped the foam. I was disappointed. The preciousness evaded me. Evidently it did
not reside in the foam. Besides, the taste was not good. Then I remembered seeing the
grown-ups blow the foam away before they drank. I buried my face in the foam and
lapped the solid liquid beneath. It wasn't good at all. But still I drank. The grown- ups
knew what they were about. Considering my diminutiveness, the size of the pail in my
lap, and my drinking out of it my breath held and my face buried to the ears in foam, it
was rather difficult to estimate how much I drank. Also, I was gulping it down like
medicine, in nauseous haste to get the ordeal over.
I shuddered when I started on, and decided that the good taste would come afterward. I
tried several times more in the course of that long half-mile. Then, astounded by the
quantity of beer that was lacking, and remembering having seen stale beer made to foam
afresh, I took a stick and stirred what was left till it foamed to the brim.
And my father never noticed. He emptied the pail with the wide thirst of the sweating
ploughman, returned it to me, and started up the plough. I endeavoured to walk beside the
horses. I remember tottering and falling against their heels in front of the shining share,
and that my father hauled back on the lines so violently that the horses nearly sat down
on me. He told me afterward that it was by only a matter of inches that I escaped
disembowelling. Vaguely, too, I remember, my father carried me in his arms to the trees
on the edge of the field, while all the world reeled and swung about me, and I was aware
of deadly nausea mingled with an appalling conviction of sin.
I slept the afternoon away under the trees, and when my father roused me at sundown it
was a very sick little boy that got up and dragged wearily homeward. I was exhausted,
oppressed by the weight of my limbs, and in my stomach was a harp-like vibrating that
extended to my throat and brain. My condition was like that of one who had gone through
a battle with poison. In truth, I had been poisoned.
In the weeks and months that followed I had no more interest in beer than in the kitchen
stove after it had burned me. The grown- ups were right. Beer was not for children. The
grown-ups didn't mind it; but neither did they mind taking pills and castor oil. As for me,