I was five years old the first time I got drunk.

It was on a hot day, and my father was ploughing in the field.

I was sent from the house, half a mile away, to carry to him a pail of beer.

"And be sure you don't spill it," was the parting injunction.
It was, as I remember it, a lard pail, very wide across the top, and without a cover.

As I toddled along, the beer slopped over the rim upon my legs.