JOHN B. PENNEPACKER
wiss diese voman, he runs ofer from de parn to de house and he say:
“ ‘Vat you bay for dat horse?’ And she say: ‘Subbose I bay two huntert tollars for dat horse, vat about dat?’
“And he say: ‘Dat horse is only vorth a huntert and fifty tollars.’ Den she gets mad and she say: ‘Vat is it your pusiness vot I bay for dat horse? If I choose to gif my money to Chon Pennepacker, dat is all right. I may chust so vell gif it to him as to some odder beople vat I knows. I spends my own money.’ ” Then John added slowly, with a low chuckle: “I nefer heard no gomblaints apout dat horse. He had a long dail—chust so nice a dail as efer I saw.”
All of John's habits are steady and all of his instincts are conservative. The wind bloweth where it listeth, but John stays along the Perkiomen. He lives upon land which belonged to his paternal great-great-grandfather, and the family in two hundred and six years have not moved a mile. He buys manure in Philadelphia at a dollar a ton, pays the railroad a dollar a ton more for freight, and then hauls it to his farms, but bone and fertilizers are tabooed. With a touch of malice, I said to him:
“John, how do you think it would do to put up a silo?”
“Some beople say dey gets more milk from de cows dat vay and some beople say dat dey is no goot. But I don't put up no silo. My son, Isaac, he lifs on my varm in Perkiomen Downship. Vun day he comes to me and he say, ‘Pop, I sink maybe I could safe some money if I puild a silo right dere py de grick.’ And den I say to Isaac, ‘You don't puild no silo dere py de grick nor anyveres else. If you puild a silo you gets off dat varm—pretty quick.’ ”
Three young ladies, John, my Brother James and myself had reached the middle of the Perkiomen in a flat-bottomed boat and were watching the shadows of the shellbark and
