He done better as a notary public, which ain't a perfession callin' for much independent judgment. We figured it that havin' been through college and the law school, Silas's natural parts were sufficiently improved so as he could witness an oath. But beyond this no one had ever taken chances. So he kept chickens by way of helpin' out his professional earnin's. He was successful at that. Even folks who affected to sneer at him for bein' such a simple soul owned up that he had hen sense. No, his parts couldn't have appeared brilliant on the surface when you realize that after livin' all them years elbow to elbow with him, the most we could find to say was that he had hen sense. Socially he was of them poor unfortunates that never gets a chance to finish anything they start to say. About the time folks was willin' to listen to him somebody changed the subject. He was always bein' broke off in the middle and serialized. It was as if some one got nervous waitin', and turned the page. From what I am sayin' you may gather that Silas was at the tail-end of the procession. But that was hardly it. He was more like a man who'd missed the procession entirely. But he was a simple soul all right, and he never bore malice with folks for bein' short with him or showin' plain that they didn't care a cuss for what he thought. But to go back to Thomas R. Pendagrast. He come into the valley in a great, big, yellow tourin'-car along late one afternoon in dog-days. It was me seen him first. His car was standin' in the road, and he seemed to be examinin' a daisy he had in his hand. None of your ox-eyes, but just one of those ornery white-and-yellow kind same as are such a pest. “Ain't it wonderful—the white and the deep, deep yellow, like gold?” he says, smilin' at me kind of shy. “Do you think any artist could paint such a golden yellow?” he says. “I don't.” “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.