In the late 1800s, Jamaican children would play Moonshine Baby on the night of a full moon. Claude McKay recalled his father telling them that “the making of these moonshine babies was an old African custom and that different villages used to compete in the making of them.” (“Boyhood in Jamaica”, Phylon (1940-1956), Vol. 14, No. 2 (2nd Qtr., 1953), pp. 134-145)
Olive Senior wrote about this game in her poem “Moonshine Dolly”.
The mind's a needle that draws a thread:<br></br>the body, knotted in the head,<br></br>secured by axons to its guide.<br></br>They dart through fibers woven tight<br></br>and restless seek the other side<br></br>of veils they've fashioned on their travels.<br></br><br></br>As they cross paths, they bind and tangle,<br></br>and jockey for the perfect angle<br></br>to sew a stitch of their design<br></br>on a sheet of endless space and time;<br></br>but when the thread cuts free at last, <br></br>the needlepoint’s all that remains:<br></br>the fabric of the veil unravels.<br></br>