JOHN B. PENNEPACKER
“John, who is that little man?” I asked.
We sat on hickory chairs on the porch in the shade of a thriving vine which climbed to the roof. I pointed to a man about five feet four inches in height, thin and swarthy, what the French would call Chetif, with dark eyes and bandy legs, who lounged against the fence.
“His name vas Prown. He lifs in de voods back of Reed's Mill. Dere he makes paskets out of vite oak and hickory. Dere ain't any of dem pasket-makers arount any more. He learnt to make paskets from his grandfadder, olt George Prown. Olt George has peen tead it vas dirty years or more. Ven he vas alife yet he goes about de country wiss his back all covered wiss paskets so ven you look at him you could see nossing but paskets. He makes all kinds of paskets out of straw and hickory, and de rount pread paskets. Do you haf rye pread at your house?”
“No, John, we don't use rye bread.”
“Vell, ven I vas a poy it vas de only kind of pread ve had. It vas right goot. You can't get any rye flour now. De millers crind all de meal out of de flour. But my mudder, she sift it for herself. Dere is no more such dimes as dem vas. Diese feller vant me to gif him an olt pair of poots. Dere is an olt pair in de parn vat is vore out and no goot any more, but he says dey is goot.”
“I suppose he finds life a little hard?”
“It is all his own fault. He is too lazy to vork. And ven de huntin' season comes along you can nefer catch him at home. He is off after rappits. He lifs cheap, puys olt stale pread and eats rappits.”
Brown carried off the boots.
The homely arts which once supported these people have been swept away by the onward march of events, and those who have only learned the crafts of their grandfathers have dwindled with them.
