It seems like this year has just started and now its almost 1/6th over. The winter is about to break for warmer, hopefully better times. The past 2 months haven’t been the best for me and with my February web-post numbers sub 4 times … its hard for me not to feel like I have abandoned you. But fear not, I haven’t gone anywhere. Just doing some much needed soul searching. When my grandfather was in the hospital the only thing he really wanted was water. He kept asking us for "Gunga Din" which ment water, and alot of other things as I now know. I have plenty to say, just don’t feel like speaking just yet. So I will let smarter men who came before me, speak for now. I bring you Gunga Din!

Rudyard Kipling’s – Gunga Din.

You may talk of gin and beer when you're quartered safe out here But when it comes to slaughter you will do your work on water and you'll lick the blooming boots of him that's got it. Now in India's sunny clime where I used to spend my time aserving of her Majesty, the Queen, Of all them brown faced crew, the finest man I knew was our regimental carrier, Gunga Din. It was 'Din, Din, Din! You limpin lump of tin, Water, Get it! hitherto, You squidy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!' The uniform he wore was nothing much before and rather less than half of that behind. For a twisty piece of rag and a goatskin water-bag was all the field equipment he could find. It was 'Din, Din, Din! You heathen, where the mischief have you been? You put some speed now in it, or I'll quarter you this minute, if you don't fill up my cup, Gunga Din!' He would dot and carry one till the longest day was done, and he didn't seem to know the use of fear. If we charged or broke or cut, you could bet your blooming nut, he'd be waiting fifty paces right flank rear. And for all his dirty hide he was white, clear white inside when he went to tend the wounded under fire. It was 'Din, Din, Din!' with the bullets kicking dust spots on the green when the cartridges ran out you could hear the front lines shout 'Hi!, Ammunition mules and Gunga Din!' I shan't forget the night when I dropped behind the fight with a bullet where my belt plate should have been. I was choking mad with thirst and the man that spied me first was our good old grinning, grunting Gunga Din. He lifted up my head and plugged me where I bled, and gave me half a pint of water...green. It was crawling and it stunk, but of all the drinks I've drunk, I'm gratefulest to one from Gunga Din. It was 'Din, Din, Din!' here's a beggar with a bullet through his spleen he's chawing up the ground and he's kicking all around For God's sake get the water, Gunga Din!' He carried me away to where the water lay and a bullet come and drilled the beggar clean. He put me safe inside and just before he died, I hope you like your drink, said Gunga Din. Well, I'll meet him later on in the place where he has gone; where it's always double drill and no canteen; he'll be squatting on the coals giving drink to poor damned souls and I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din. Din, Din, Din! you lazarushian-leather hided Gunga Din! though I've belted and I've flayed you by the Living God that made you You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!