Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1915-10-13
there's nothing wrong with me" There

DAILY KENNEBEC
there's nothing wrong with me-" There
| was.
She could see It, the kiddies could
too. although 1t was less heart-pang
to them because its full significance
was not recognized. Mr.. Man. it's
there, there. in the d1li. red. lifeless
eyes; it's Ii your thick speech. your
| a6ectations Of manner. your irritable
ity. and your desire to be alone.
Once upon time; when things were
different, the sitting room meant 80
much to you and the evening lamp and
the magazines. and your children. You'd
get on your slippers and house jacket
and all four Of you would sit there
happily.
| began to worry when I saw you
neglect the kiddies. when they failed to
stimulate your interest. and the home
coming hour. eight, halfpast, nine. nine
thirty, telephoned excuses with lie at
the bottom Of them. and the lie still
there when your hot, smelly. whiskey
breath beat upon the lips Of the little
| wife.
why is it, Mr.. Man. that man can
think that he may throw of his hor-
rid, sickenins. unclean cloak Of drink,
as he enters his own door? 1t has left
an indeIible stain, rank. disgust
ing smear on every square inch OF him.
He is the moral leper, swaggering bois-
lterously about the universe when pride
might well cause him to conceal him.
self from the sight Of the clean.
Take q moment ago, Mr.. Man. You're
just getting home. The clock in the
sitting room tinkled eleven. the Riddles
were in bed: the house is hushed. as
| If death had come across it's threshold.
A hopeful anxious little woman hur-
ries to the door as you tumble at the
latch. Intuitively she looks at you, at
your eyes, questioningly,' her right, but
with love; you garrulously question it's
motive.
| You shove her hand rudely aside,
sling your coat into a corner and walk
unsteadily, angrily past her, to the sit
ting room. For a moment she stands,
irresolutely. shamed, hurt to the heart.
| Then q smile is forced to the trembl-
ing lips, and as you sit hunched in
your chair. you feel her solicitious
arms about your neck. Jim, JIM" she
whispers. please. boy. please, for my
sake. and the little fellows, don't come
home this, this way. You don't know
! how bad it makes me feel, Jimmy"
You do not answer, for the real you
Is not there. But the drink talks back,
talks in the only voice that liquor
ever had, in ugly. villifying, hasty Ian
guage. "Oh, leave me alone" drink re-
plies. But, Jimmy, listen. DEAR" the
woman pleads. Il don't want to talk to
you" snarls the liquor
| The arms are there. nevertheless,
caressing, tightening about your neck,
and damp, nervous fingers are mussing
UP your hair. Red and green and vel
low dances before you in the half
light of the sitting room. Before you
half realize what you have done. you
spring to your feet and brush impa-
tiently out into the hall. She follows.
you see her at the foot of the stairs.
The gold Of her hair shines prettily,
for q moment you ,waver. you temper
ize, you have a catch at the throat and
heart, you do bit of silly, sentimental
reasoning, half logic, half drink, stew
ing In your dizzy head.
Drink is winner. You haveNput your
wife in the balance with booze and the
booze has won. What is home, quiet,
peace, restfulness, and happiness when
there are saloons. There you may tilt
shiny glasses and nible at the tempt
ing lunch and hear idle gossip from
| tongues as thick as your own.
| Here you are; sitting by the. table
fagain. and with me. I've got you.
There's no escaping. You knew
would not be put off much longer.
What have you got to say in defense of
your past five miserable years?
| What's that? You are not drinking
| to excess, not taking more than hum
dreds and thousands Of other men,
your wife nags and frets you over
nothing; you are cross because you
have been working too hard at the Of
flee and need a rest, you are consti-
tutionally in need of a stimulant, you
were Built to drink the stuff" you
know when to stop.
| You take only as much as Is good for
you, the very character of your bust
ness demands that you get out and
mix Mr.. Man this is no private and
personal talk; it's the same old lame,
talky excuse that booze has been max
Ing since the first grape was fermented.
| Do not make the mistake Of thinking
that you have said anything new, or
iginal, and sensible. Civilization has
been repeating that sort of fool glib
berish for centuries. Civilization
speaks it's mind bluntly, too, my boy.
Civilization says that real men, men
who achieve don't dump liquor into
themselves. day In and day out.
They do not go to their tasks with
foul breaths and befuddled senses.
Drinking is job by itself. You can't
neglect it for little thing like bust
ness. The crooking Of that elbow re-
quires constant practice. II you stop
for a moment. every bad, mean treach-
erous sense in you let's out a bawling
yell for more. just another drink.
Big fellows, with fine futures ahead,
men possessed of pride, self-respect,
and love Of wife and Riddles. have
something better to do than polish bar
rails. II they have odd minutes. they
create. play clean games, walk and
talk with children and wives and dis
tribute happiness,
It's a mistaken idea, Mr. Man, this
lone of yours that to be sociable one
must be drunk or drinking. Those fell
lows you left an hour or so ago are
not sociable men, they are asses gone