Rural visitors went home satisfied that the country was safe--they
had seen Uncle Sam on hand, sober, and 'tending to business!' A friend
once said to him, "Manysnifters, you look so much like Uncle Sam that
whenever I see you on a jag I feel like this great nation of ours is
going to hell!"
Georgia is the Colonel's native State, and he is proud of it, but I
imagine that some recent legislation down there has greatly upset him.
He looked rather downcast when I last saw him, and refused nourishment
either in solid or liquid form. And then he said, eyeing me solemnly,
"'Times is right porely down our way, boss. Things don't lap. De
chinquapin crap done gin out 'fore de simmons is ripe!' Now, boy, don't
ask me how things are going in my State. You know as much about it as I
do. Let the old man alone, won't you?" and so I left him.
"Well, Colonel, how do you feel now?" asked Senator Bull solicitously.
"Oh, I'm all right," replied the Colonel, suspicion lurking in his
tones. "I know what you think, Senator, but I am not. No, siree! I
_have_ had three or four small ones, but I am not 'lit' by a jugful! The
idea! Drunk on four high-balls! Why, they just clear my brain--drive the
fog out. Maybe it's the Scotch, maybe the soda. A fine combination, the
high-ball. I am as stupid as an owl when I am cold sober, but when I
drink, I soar! I feel like a lark with nothing between myself and the
sun except a little fresh air and exercise.
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