"But the boy has got character, and character is everything in this world."
"Did you notice anything peculiarsome about him? His cousin, Dennis Hanks, says there's something peculiarsome about him. I never did."
"My good woman, do you believe in gifts?"
"No, I believe in works. I believe in people whose two fists are full of works. Mine are, like the Marthas of old."
Aunt Olive rolled up her sleeves, and began to cut the thin layer of dough with a knife into long strips, which she twisted.
"I'm goin' to make some twisted doughnuts," she said, "seein' you're a preacher and a teacher."
"I think that young lad Lincoln has some inborn gift, and that he will become a leader among men. It is he who is willing to serve that rules, and they who deny themselves the most receive the most from Heaven and men. He has sympathetic wisdom. I can see it. There is something peculiar about him. He is true."
"Oh, don't you talk that way. He's lazy, and he hain't got any calculation, 'n' he'll never amount to shucks, nor nothin'. He's like his father, his head in the air. Somethin' don't come of nothin' in this world; corn don't grow unless you plant it; and when you add nothin' to nothin' it just makes nothin'.
"Well, preacher, you've told me who you are, and now I'll tell ye who I am. But first, let me say, I'll have a pair of shoes. I have my own last. I'll get it for you, and then you can be peggin' away, so as not to lose any time. It is wicked to waste time. 'Work' is my motto. That's what time is made for."
Aunt Olive got her last. The fat was hot by this time—"all sizzlin'," as she said.