"Le' me pour fur ye, stranger," said White, uncorking the bottle. "Ye'll find 'at hit air liquor wo'th a-drinkin'. Hit ain't pizened with no revenue postage, ye may set thet down solid."
Moreton, with no light inward protest, submitted his lips to the proffered glass. His English taste for excellent drinks was never more deliciously surprised. What began as a formal, carefully guarded sip, crept on into a series of slow quaffs, ending in a final hearty gulp. White grinned delightedly.
"Haint hit good, strenger? Don't hit hev the outdaciousest way o' gittin' to the very marrer of a feller's neck, of any liquor ye ever tasted? Ef hit don't git ther', none don't. The Colonel sez hit's the best liquor 'at he ever tasted! an' he's traveled, he hes. He's been in furren parts, Rome an' France an' them air places."
Moreton was quick to acknowledge that the brandy was surpassingly fine. It had the bouquet of old wine, the body of cognac and the mellow fire of Scotch whisky, along with a faint trace of peach kernels. He thought of a certain London club in which he would like to introduce this Sand Mountain nectar.
White partook sparingly of the precious beverage, and then carefully replaced the bottle in its hiding-place under the bed.
Meantime the heavy throbs of wind and rain shook the cabin to its foundation.
When the mountaineer returned to his chair by the fire, Moreton inquired of him where the brandy was made.
"Oh, I dunno jest wher' hit air made, nohow. We calls hit the mounting jew," said White, glancing furtively at his wife. By "jew" he meant dew. The peach brandy made in the sly little stills, scattered among the mountains from North Carolina to Alabama, is sometimes locally called mountain dew, or rather, "mounting jew." It is not the drink of drunkards. In fact the mountaineers, with now and then an exception, are remarkably temperate in the matter of tippling; but the jug of "jew" is the special implement of their hospitality.