John McNeil called at the Rutledge home the night young Lincoln went to Turtle Ford to earn his new pants. After the family had gone to bed and Ann was left to say good-night to the young man she was engaged to, he said, "Ann, I thought that fellow was captain of the boat and maybe owned some of the cargo. He's nothing but a railsplitter." "He didn't use his hat like a railsplitter." "He's picked up a few lessons in manners somewhere--maybe saw somebody doing it in New Orleans." "No--because it was on his way down that he lifted his hat." "Well, I don't know where he got it, but he's only a railsplitter just the same. Hasn't a cent in the world. Didn't know it was a railsplitter waving to you, did you?" "It wasn't me he waved at. He never heard of me and don't know yet that I am living. It was the flowers he liked and I'm glad he likes flowers if he is a railsplitter." "I'd like to know, Ann, why you take on so over flowers. What are they good for?" "Good for? What a funny question. What is the song of birds good for and the fragrance of flowers and the beauty of ferns? What is the music of running brooks good for and the splendor of gold and red sunsets--what are any of them good for?" "That's just what I'm asking," John McNeil said seriously. "What _are_ they good for? Can't eat them, can you? Can't wear them, can you? Can't sell them, can you? or trade them or swap them for anything? Women are such funny folks and don't know a thing about values. But I'm going to leave the plum thicket another year and the corner in the pasture where the blue flowers grow you like to pick." "Thank you, John--thank you a whole lot"; and happy because of his promise, Ann kissed John McNeil good-night. CHAPTER IV THE PILGRIM A few days after Abraham Lincoln had entered service to split rails for a new pair of breeches, he came to town late one afternoon to get an ax. After tarrying a short time to tell a story or two, he started back about sun-down, his ax, on the handle of which was swung a bundle, over his shoulder. As twilight gathered, the ungainly youth took his way along the road that ran not far from the smoothly flowing Sangamon. His strides were long and easy, and, away from the small habitations and contrivances of mankind, he seemed to become one with the big things of nature, and what was sometimes considered lack of grace seemed now an easy expression of reserve force. The roar of the mill-dam sounded musical as if the twilight were softening its daytime boisterous tumult. The falling dew seemed loosening up the fragrance of the woods, the subtle breath of tangled vines and trailing roses, with sometimes a more decided fragrance, as when the full-sized foot of the pedestrian brushed into a bed of wild mint.