There was a wee little infant - his tender skin bruised and bloody - one tiny jaw crushed to a pulp. A little hand just hanging limp - the bones protruding out a tiny leg. That blond curly hair now matted with dirt and blood. White robed ambulance attendants picked up that little mangled body and gently placed it on a stretcher. A low moan came from those baby lips once so perfectly shaped, but now bruised and disfigured. That was his last sound before death.

     Again they lifted a form from the ground - a sort of shapeless mass without form. It was the baby's mother - broken, mangled, and crumpled; no sign of life there. The card on her bosom read simply: "morgue."

     Several yards away lay the father still alive and screaming with pain - face cut with a thousand splinters of glass - chest crushed from impact - legs a shapeless mass - blood gushing from his mouth. He stopped screaming and called in his agony, "My wife? My children?" Then he fell back into merciful death. In the crowd of people, held back by kind hands, a little boy sobbed, "Daddy. Mama. Mama."

     And two state policemen held a wobbly, drunken wretch reeking with the stench of liquor. "Wha' happened," he incoherently blubbered. "I only had a couple of drinks."

     Three graves, an orphan, and a light fine and jail sentence for a drunk. Who is to blame?

     Oh, not the liquor industry who manufactures the poison - not the corner bar that sells it and sends the drunks out on the highways - not the television and magazines that promote it by urging people to drink more - and surely not the local town's people who make it more easily accessible by allowing liquor by the drink in their small town - not the Christians whose voices are stilled from decrying the sin of drink.