verse of any text
from which he chose to preach. There was but one room in his house of
logs with its lean-to kitchen of rough planks, but never did I hear
father's kinsman or his wife offer any word of excuse for anything. When
it was time for victuals his wife, with all the graciousness of
nobility, would stand behind her guests, while her man, seated at the
head of the table, head bowed reverently, offered thanks. Then, lifting
his head, he would fling wide his open palms in hospitality, "Thar hit
is afore you. Take holt and eat all you're a-mind to!" And turning to
his wife, "Marthie! watch their plates!" My great-aunt kept a vigilant
eye on us as she walked around the table inviting us to partake, "Hure,
have more of the snaps. Holp yourself to the ham meat. Take another
piece of cornbread. 'Pon my word, you're pickin' like a wren. Eat
hearty!" she urged, while above our heads she swished the fly-brush, a
branch from the lilac bush in summer, otherwise a fringed paper attached
to a stick.

They learned through necessity to put to use the things at hand, made
their own crude implements to clear and break the stubborn soil; they
learned to do without.

Their poteen (whiskey) craft, handed down by their Scotch-Irish
ancestors, survives today in what outlanders term moonshining.
Resentment against taxation of homemade whiskey survives too. The
mountaineer reasons--I've heard them frequently in court--that the land
is his, that he "heired it from his Pa, same as him from hisn," that he
plants him some bread without no tax. Why can't he make whiskey from his
corn without paying tax?

As for killing in the Blue Ridge Country. In my profession of court
stenographer I have reported many trials for killing and almost
invariably my sympathy has been with the slayer. Usually he admits that
he had it to do either for a real or fancied wrong, or for a slur to his
womenfolks. I've never known of gangsters, fingermen, or paid killers in
the Blue Ridge Country.

With an inherent love of music, handed down from the wandering minstrels
of Shakespeare's time, and with a wealth of ballads stored up in their
heads and hearts, they found in these a joyful expression. Even the
children, like their elders, can turn a hand to fashion a make-believe
whistle of beech or maple, although they may never know that in so doing
they are making an imitation of the Recorder upon which Queen Elizabeth
herself was a skilled performer. Little Chad