THE ENEMY
stay. And on whom may we cast the blame? Surely not on ourselves, for we own not to the gallons we have drunken of wines heady and strong, wines tawny and fruity and loaded, wines creamy and nutty and rich, wines rosily opulent and aridly pale. We confess not to the pecks and bushels of fruits both fresh and preserved—no, we admit no impeachments soft or otherwise; we seek for scapegoats and a herd is at hand. Our fathers have eaten sour grapes and the teeth of the children are set on edge. The blame lies there, in parents and grandparents in whose veins coursed the nefarious sherry, the treacherous Madeira, the malignant port, the malicious hock, and the deceptive champagne. This is the one blessing with which Podagra tempers his many curses. He justifies our senses in blaming
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