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silo; it tastes like the Wrath
to
Come; and when you absorb
a deep swig of it you have all the sensations of having
swallowed a lighted kerosene lamp. A sudden violent jolt
of it has been known to stop the victim's watch, snap both
his suspenders, and crack his glass eye right across - all in
the same motion. Personally, I would recommend it only
to persons who are headed for the last hiccup and want to
get it over with as soon as possible. And if you must drink
it, always do so while sitting flat on the floor. Then you
don't have so far to fall.
So now, if in these pages I should seem to lean rather
lovingly toward gallant old King Bourbon rather than
toward his estimable half-brother Prince Rye, I pray the
reader may bear with me and excuse my preferences on
the grounds of local pride, or, would you say, insular
bigotry? The best Rye, as most everyone knows, has alw'lys
come from Maryland, just as the best Bourbon has always
come from Kentucky. This noble circumstance is due to
the gr'!.,cious co-mingled chemistry of a certain climate and
a certain soil
fo~mation
and a certain limestone underlay;
plus a certain crafty knack in the mixing and the making
that was handed down from the fathers who discovered
generations ago this imm1:1table law: that truly great
whiskey must be made by the "sour mash ''. method,
which in contrast to the commonly used "cooker" process,
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