📔 John Barleycorn

The sunburn of my face, what little of it could be seen through a scraggly growth of beard, had faded to a sickly yellow.

There were so many drinks to be drunk, and as the warm magic poured through our veins and mellowed our voices and affections we knew it was no time to make invidious distinctions—to drink with this shipmate and to decline to drink with that shipmate.

With this man this is the hour of the white logic (of which more anon), when he knows that he may know only the laws of things—the meaning of things never.