y to the making
of moonshine and for this reason has been a thorn in the flesh of U. S.
Alcohol Tax Unit. During the year 1939, according to _Life_, it is
estimated that more than 4000 stills were captured in the states of
Georgia, Alabama, South Carolina, and Florida.

However, it is not the moonshiner who reaps the richest revenue from
corn whiskey, which he sells for ninety cents a gallon, but the
bootlegger and others down the line who add on, each in his turn, until
the potent drink reaches a final sale price of ninety cents a quart and
more. The tax on legitimate whiskey is $2.25 a proof gallon which makes
it prohibitive in a community competing with the moonshiner's untaxed
product.

Through the southern mountain region Negroes frequently are employed by
white men operating stills on a large scale, where many boxes are used
for the fermenting mash. The fines and sentences vary with the output
and number of offenses.

The mountaineer, on the other hand, who operates a small still usually
is a poor man. When brought into court he pleads that he cannot haul out
a load of corn over rugged roads miles to a market and compete with a
farmer from the lowlands who is not retarded by bad roads. Or again, if
he is from an extremely isolated mountain section, he offers the old
reasoning, "It is my land and my corn--why can't I do with my crop
whatever I please?"

If the federal judge is a kindly, understanding man he will listen
patiently to the story of the mountaineer who has made illicit whiskey,
and if it be only the first or second offense, a sentence of six months
in prison is imposed. "But, judge, your honor," pleads the perplexed
mountaineer. "I've got to put in my crop and my old woman is ailin'--she
can't holp none. I've got to lay in foirwood for winter, judge, your
honor, my youngins is too little to holp." Often the understanding judge
replies, "Now, John, you go back home and get your work done up, then
come back and serve your sentence." Rarely has the judge's trust been
betrayed.

LEARNING

What with good roads, the radio, and better schools and more of them the
scene is rapidly changing in the Blue Ridge Country.

The little one-room log school is almost a thing of the past. Only in
remote sections can it be found. No longer is the mountain child
retarded by the bridgeless stream, for good roads have come to the
mountains and with them the catwalk--an improvised brid