LINCOLN.
No, boys, I'm not coming. I tell you, it's like splitting rails. Once you get tired or give up, your work gets the better of you. I mean to stick to what I've set out to do.
TOM
(regretfully).
Well, then, good-night, Abe.
LINCOLN
(with the utmost friendliness).
Good-night. Good-night. (With a general stir and in the midst of a chorus of leave-taking, he sees them to the door.) Watch your lantern, Amy. Good-night. Good-night, all.
[For a moment he stands and there comes to him the sound of laughter and retreating footsteps, and a gay lilt from Francois fiddle. As the sound grows fainter and fainter he crosses resolutely to the hearth, tosses on a cone or two, places the shovel where it will be within easy reach, and stretches himself on the floor before the fire.
From outside a sudden gust of wind brings clearly a last snatch of the air that Francois is playing in the distance. Lincoln raises his bead and listens, smiles whimsically to himself, and then opens his books.
LINCOLN.
And now for the husking!