304 Singing Valleys 



Repeal took away the market for "blockade," except in 

 localities where men have never drunk any other kind of 

 whiskey. One of them derided the idea that whiskey improved 

 by ageing. He had tried it once, he said. "I left the jug for all 

 o' three months. Danged if I could taste any difference." 



In parts of the Great Smokies and the Ozarks a man just 

 naturally makes "corn likker" for his own use, as he salts 

 down white meat and smokes a few hams. It's a matter of 

 thrift. He can't eat all the corn he raises. He has to drink 

 some of it. 



At many of the Ozark swing-arounds there's a jug of corn 

 set out in a convenient corner. The mountain women do not 

 drink in public, but there is no convention which prevents 

 their partners from gathering around the jug and its gourd 

 dipper between the dances. The fiddlers have a jug of their 

 own. When the dancing is well under way, and the blandish- 

 ments of Black Betty have had their effect, the dancers are apt 

 to break into the song which goes with the tune they are 

 stepping to: 



"What blood? What blood on the p'int o' your knife, 



Dear son, come tell to me?" 

 "Hit's the blood o' my old gray horse 



That ploughed the corn for me." 



That ploughed the corn for me/ 



"What blood? What blood on the p'int o' your knife, 



Dear son, come tell to me?" 

 "Hit's the blood o' my old Guinea sow 



That et the corn for me." 



That et the corn for me/ 



