John Barleycorn | Page 7

the night before. The
Morriseys were a huge breed, and there were many strapping great sons
and uncles, heavy-booted, big-fisted, rough- voiced.
Suddenly there were screams from the girls and cries of "Fight!" There
was a rush. Men hurled themselves out of the kitchen. Two giants,
flush-faced, with greying hair, were locked in each other's arms. One
was Black Matt, who, everybody said, had killed two men in his time.
The women screamed softly, crossed themselves, or prayed brokenly,
hiding their eyes and peeping through their fingers. But not I. It is a fair
presumption that I was the most interested spectator. Maybe I would
see that wonderful thing, a man killed. Anyway, I would see a
man-fight. Great was my disappointment. Black Matt and Tom
Morrisey merely held on to each other and lifted their clumsy-booted
feet in what seemed a grotesque, elephantine dance. They were too
drunk to fight. Then the peacemakers got hold of them and led them
back to cement the new friendship in the kitchen.
Soon they were all talking at once, rumbling and roaring as big-
chested open-air men will, when whisky has whipped their taciturnity.
And I, a little shaver of seven, my heart in my mouth, my trembling
body strung tense as a deer's on the verge of flight, peered wonderingly
in at the open door and learned more of the strangeness of men. And I
marvelled at Black Matt and Tom Morrisey, sprawled over the table,
arms about each other's necks, weeping lovingly.
The kitchen-drinking continued, and the girls outside grew timorous.

They knew the drink game, and all were certain that something terrible
was going to happen. They protested that they did not wish to be there
when it happened, and some one suggested going to a big Italian
rancho four miles away, where they could get up a dance. Immediately
they paired off, lad and lassie, and started down the sandy road. And
each lad walked with his sweetheart--trust a child of seven to listen and
to know the love- affairs of his countryside. And behold, I, too, was a
lad with a lassie. A little Irish girl of my own age had been paired off
with me. We were the only children in this spontaneous affair. Perhaps
the oldest couple might have been twenty. There were chits of girls,
quite grown up, of fourteen and sixteen, walking with their fellows. But
we were uniquely young, this little Irish girl and I, and we walked hand
in hand, and, sometimes, under the tutelage of our elders, with my arm
around her waist. Only that wasn't comfortable. And I was very proud,
on that bright Sunday morning, going down the long bleak road among
the sandhills. I, too, had my girl, and was a little man.
The Italian rancho was a bachelor establishment. Our visit was hailed
with delight. The red wine was poured in tumblers for all, and the long
dining-room was partly cleared for dancing. And the young fellows
drank and danced with the girls to the strains of an accordion. To me
that music was divine. I had never heard anything so glorious. The
young Italian who furnished it would even get up and dance, his arms
around his girl, playing the accordion behind her back. All of which
was very wonderful for me, who did not dance, but who sat at a table
and gazed wide-eyed at the amazingness of life. I was only a little lad,
and there was so much of life for me to learn. As the time passed, the
Irish lads began helping themselves to the wine, and jollity and high
spirits reigned. I noted that some of them staggered and fell down in the
dances, and that one had gone to sleep in a corner. Also, some of the
girls were complaining, and wanting to leave, and others of the girls
were titteringly complacent, willing for anything to happen.
When our Italian hosts had offered me wine in a general sort of way, I
had declined. My beer experience had been enough for me, and I had
no inclination to traffic further in the stuff, or in anything related to it.
Unfortunately, one young Italian, Peter, an impish soul, seeing me

sitting solitary, stirred by a whim of the moment, half-filled a tumbler
with wine and passed it to me. He was sitting across the table from me.
I declined. His face grew stern, and he insistently proffered the wine.
And then terror descended upon me--a terror which I must explain.
My mother had theories. First, she steadfastly maintained that brunettes
and all the tribe of dark-eyed humans were deceitful. Needless to say,
my mother was a blonde. Next, she was convinced that the dark-eyed
Latin races were profoundly sensitive, profoundly treacherous, and