JOHN B. PENNEPACKER
John is the largest land holder of the neighborhood, owning in different tracts about four hundred acres—“coot and pad,” according to his description.
“Dat varm vere you vas vonce vhere de persimmons crow is out of de vay down in a valley and hart to get at, but my fadder gafe me dat varm and I vill take care of it so long as I lif. Ven I am gone vonce, den dat is somesing else.”
“This is the worst summer, John, I have ever known (1909). How does your corn look?”
“Chust like yours. Ve ought to haf some rain vonce.”
There was a cold eastern rain upon one of the early days of May—a day not bracing with the cold of winter, but one that makes the nerves creep with dampness and chilliness and renders any glow of extreme heat a real comfort.
“On such a day as vat diese is a stofe comes right handy,” was John's sage comment.
Among the Pennsylvania Dutch with whom John has passed his days there is a peculiar use of the word “why” which is always curious and sometimes startling.
“John,” I once asked, “can you tell me when the next train will leave Schwenksville for Pennsburg?”
“Yes, I can, vy?” was the response which came promptly, but was more illustrative than instructive.
As he reached out for his straw hat with its unusually broad brim, he said:
“My time is all but up alreaty and I must go home.”
“John, what was that contrivance used for, that you sent over to me the other day?” I inquired.
It consisted of a slab supported upon four hickory legs. Through the center ran a movable strip. On the upper
