<h2>BILL NATIONS</h2>
<h3>BY BILL ARP</h3>
<p>You never knowd Bill, I rekun. Hes gone to Arkensaw, and I don't
know whether hes ded or alive. He was a good feller, Bill was, as
most all whisky drinkers are. Me and him both used to love it
powerful—especially Bill. We soaked it when we could git it, and when
we coudent we hankered after it amazingly. I must tell you a little
antidote on Bill, tho I dident start to tell you about that.</p>
<p>We started on a little jurney one day in June, and took along a bottle
of "old rye," and there was so many springs and wells on the road that
it was mighty nigh gone before dinner. We took our snack, and Bill
drained the last drop, for he said we would soon git to Joe Paxton's,
and that Joe always kept some.</p>
<p>Shore enuff Joe dident have a drop, and we concluded, as we was mighty
dry, to go on to Jim Alford's, and stay all night. We knew that Jim had
it, for he always had it. So we whipped up, and the old Bay had to
travel, for I tell you when a man wants whiskey everything has to bend
to the gittin' of it. Shore enuff Jim had some. He was mity glad to see
us, and he knowd what we wanted, for he knowd how it was hisself. So he
brought out an old-fashend glass decanter, and a shugar bowl, and a
tumbler, and a spoon, and says he, "Now, boys, jest wait a minit till
you git rested sorter, for it ain't good to take whiskey on a hot
stomack. I've jest been readin' a piece<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_1369" id="Page_1369"></SPAN></span> in Grady's newspaper about a
frog—the darndest frog that perhaps ever come from a tadpole. It was
found up in Kanetucky, and is as big as a peck measure. Bill, do you
take this paper and read it aloud to us. I'm a poor hand to read, and I
want to hear it. I'll be hanged if it ain't the darndest frog I ever
hearn of." He laid the paper on my knees, and I begun to read, thinkin'
it was a little short anticdote, but as I turned the paper over I found
it was mighty nigh a column. I took a side glance at Bill, and I saw the
little dry twitches a jumpin' about on his countenance. He was mighty
nigh dead for a drink. I warent so bad off myself, and I was about half
mad with him for drainin' the bottle before dinner; so I just read along
slow, and stopped two or three times to clear my throat just to consume
time. Pretty soon Bill got up and commenced walkin' about, and he would
look at the dekanter like he would give his daylights to choke the corn
juice out of it. I read along slowly. Old Alford was a listnin' and
chawin' his tobakker and spittin' out of the door. Bill come up to me,
his face red and twitchin', and leanin' over my shoulder he seed the
length of the story, and I will never forgit his pitiful tone as he
whispered, "Skip some, Bill, for heaven's sake skip some."</p>
<p>My heart relented, and I did skip some, and hurried through, and we all
jined in a drink; but I'll never forgit how Bill looked when he
whispered to me to "skip some, Bill, skip some." I've got over the like
of that, boys, and I hope Bill has, too, but I don't know. I wish in my
soul that everybody had quit it, for you may talk about slavery, and
penitentiary, and chain-gangs, and the Yankees, and General Grant, and a
devil of a wife, but whiskey is the worst master that ever a man had
over him. I know how it is myself.</p>
<p>But there is one good thing about drinkin'. I almost<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_1370" id="Page_1370"></SPAN></span> wish every man was
a reformed drunkard. No man who hasn't drank liker knows what a luxury
cold water is. I have got up in the night in cold wether after I had
been spreein' around, and gone to the well burnin' up with thirst,
feeling like the gallows, and the grave, and the infernal regions was
too good for me, and when I took up the bucket in my hands, and with my
elbows a tremblin' like I had the shakin' ager, put the water to my
lips; it was the most delicious, satisfyin', luxurius draft that ever
went down my throat. I have stood there and drank and drank until I
could drink no more, and gone back to bed thankin' God for the pure,
innocent, and coolin' beverig, and cursin' myself from my inmost soul
for ever touchin' the accursed whisky. In my torture of mind and body I
have made vows and promises, and broken 'em within a day. But if you
want to know the luxury of cold water, get drunk, and keep at it until
you get on fire, and then try a bucket full with your shirt on at the
well in the middle of the night. You won't want a gourd full—you'll
feel like the bucket ain't big enuf, and when you begin to drink an
earthquake couldn't stop you. My fathers, how good it was! I know a
hundred men who will swear to the truth of what I say: but you see its a
thing they don't like to talk about. It's too humiliatin'.</p>
<p>But I dident start to talk about drinkin'. In fact, I've forgot what I
did start to tell you. My mind is sorter addled now a days, anyhow, and
I hav to jes let my tawkin' tumble out permiskuous. I'll take another
whet at it afore long, and fill up the gaps.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_1371" id="Page_1371"></SPAN></span></p>
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