Vaguely, too, I remember, my father carried me in his arms to the trees on the edge of the field, while all the world reeled and swung about me, and I was aware of deadly nausea mingled with an appalling conviction of sin.
I slept the afternoon away under the trees, and when my father roused me at sundown it was a very sick little boy that got up and dragged wearily homeward.

I was exhausted, oppressed by the weight of my limbs, and in my stomach was a harp-like vibrating that extended to my throat and brain.

My condition was like that of one who had gone through a battle with poison.

In truth, I had been poisoned.
In the weeks and months that followed I had no more interest in beer than in the kitchen stove after it had burned me.

The grown-ups were right.
Beer was not for children.