“I wish they didn't seed so powerful energetic,” I says.
“But who made 'em?” he asks, smilin' quaint.
“Blamed if I know. Burbank didn't; he's got better sense.”
“Yes, you know,” he says, sinkin' his voice and smilin' awful sweet.
“I know they run out a mowin' meadow mighty quick,” I says. “If anybody made 'em, I wish to blazes they'd been about something useful instead.”
“My friend,” he says, lookin' pained, “don't say that. God made 'em; they are His flowers. Are you a church-member?”
“I'm a deacon at the Fork's Meetin'-house,” I says.
“My brother!” he says gentle-like, and smilin' winnin' and friendly.
“Here's another simple soul,” I thought as we shook hands, “another soft pedal like Silas Quinby, dotty and rockin' on his base, but well-meanin' and harmless.”
But I misjudged him. You see, he lived his religion; that was it—it was a part of his everyday life. Most folks go about hidin' their religion as if it was a private matter; but that wasn't Thomas R. Pendagrast's style. He was willin' you should know just how good he was.