are moved to do this also for the sake of the tens of thousands more, just beginning to live, who cannot but be influenced for good when they read of this poor country boy. There is inspiration in the story of the Bensalem lad who, in a simple way, amassed a great fortune and used it wisely during his life by sinking wells and safeguarding them, that their life-giving streams might flow on through the ages to come.
Let us go back to old Bensalem, whose queer name breathes benediction and peace. We shall keep on a straight turnpike with our story, which will best be told as simply as possible.
On a late summer afternoon, not so very long ago, two old friends, rather up in years, stopped as they were walking along a road in Bensalem Township. The man of smaller stature, not more than five feet, six inches in height, thin and rather bent of shoulders, paused to point out to his comrade of early years a one-and-a-half story weather-beaten farmhouse. The man whose little kindly hand pointed out the old house said to his friend, as they stood together on Clover
