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.