READING BY THE FIRELIGHT; THE NEW MOTHER; THE FIRST DOLLAR.
With moth-er gone, Sa-rah Lin-coln must keep the house, do the work,
sew and cook for fa-ther and broth-er. She was 11 years old. The boy
did his part but though he kept a bright fire on the hearth, it was
still a sad home when moth-er was not there.
Books came to give a bit of cheer. An a-rith-me-tic was found in some
way and al-so a co-py of Æ-sop’s Fa-bles. For a slate a shov-el was
used. For a pen-cil a charred stick did the work.
A year went by, and one day Thom-as Lin-coln left home. He soon came
back and brought a new wife with him. She was Sa-rah Bush John-ston, an
old friend of E-liz-a-beth-town days. She had three chil-dren――John,
Sa-rah and Ma-til-da. A kind man took them and their goods in a
four-horse cart way to In-di-an-a.
A great change then came to the Lin-coln house. There were three
bright girls and three boys who made a deal of noise. A door was hung,
a floor laid, a win-dow put in. There were new chairs, a bu-reau,
feath-er-beds, new clothes, neat ways, good food, lov-ing care, and
much to show A-bra-ham that there was still some hope in the world.
The new moth-er was a kind wom-an, and at once took the sad boy to her
heart. All his life from that time, he gave praise to this friend in
need.
A chance came then for a brief time at school, and this was “made the
most of.” Folks said the boy “grew like a weed.” When he was twelve
it was said one “could al-most see him grow.” At half a score and
five years old he was six feet and four in-ches high. He was well,
strong, and kind. He had to work hard. He did most of the work his
fa-ther should have done. But in the midst of it all he found time to
read. He kept a scrap-book, too, and put in it verse, prose, bits from
his-to-ry, “sums,” and all print and writ-ing he wished to keep. At
night he would lie flat on the floor and read and “fig-ure” by fire
light.
One day some one told A-bra-ham that Mr. Craw-ford, a man whose home
was miles off, had a book he ought to read. This was a great book in
those days. It was Weems’ “Life of Wash-ing-ton.” The youth set off
through the woods to ask the loan of it. He got the book and read
it with joy. At night he put it in what he thought was a safe place
be-tween the logs, but rain came in and wet it, so he went straight to
Craw-ford, told the tale, and worked three days at “pull-ing fod-der”
to pay for the harm which had come to the book.
[Illustration: THE YOUNG RAIL-SPLITTER.]
It was the way in those times in that place for a youth to work till he
was a score and one years old for his fa-ther. This young Lin-coln did,
work-ing out where he would build fires, chop wood, “tote” wa-ter, tend
ba-bies, do all sorts of chores, mow, reap, sow, plough, split rails,
and then give what he earned to his fa-ther.
Though work filled the days, much of the nights were giv-en to books.
In rough garb, deer skin shoes, with a blaze of pine knots on the
hearth, A-bra-ham read, read, fill-ing his mind with things that were a
help to him all his life. He knew how to talk and tell tales, and folks
liked to hear him. He led in all out of door sports. He was kind to
those not so strong as he was. All were his friends.
The first mon-ey that he thought he might call his own he earned with
a boat he had made. It seems that one day as he stood look-ing at it
and think-ing if he could do an-y thing to im-prove it, two men drove
down to the shore with trunks. They took a glance at some boats they
found there, chose Lin-coln’s boat, and asked him if he would take men
and trunks out to the steam-er. He said he would. So he got the trunks
on the flat-boat, the men sat down on them, and he sculled out to the
steam-er.
[Illustration: EARNING THE FIRST DOLLAR.]
The men got on board the steam-er, and their young boat-man lift-ed the
hea-vy trunks to her deck. Steam was put on, and in an in-stant the
craft would be gone. Then the youth sang out that his pas-sen-gers had
not yet paid him.
Each man then took from his pock-et a sil-ver half-dol-lar and threw
it on the floor of the flat-boat. Great was the sur-prise of young
Lin-coln to think so much mon-ey was his for so lit-tle work. He had
thought “two or three bits” would be a-bout right. The coin which came
to him then, when off du-ty from his fa-ther’s toil, the youth thought
might be his own. It made him feel like a man, and the world then was
more bright for him.
A man who kept a store thought he would send a “car-go load,” ba-con,
corn meal, and oth-er goods, down to New Or-leans in a large flat-boat.
As A-bra-ham was at all times safe and sure, the own-er, Mr. Gen-try,
asked him to go with his son and help a-long. They had to trade on the
“su-gar-coast,” and one night sev-en black men tried to kill and rob
them. Though the young sail-ors got some blows, they at last drove off
the ne-groes, “cut ca-ble,” “weighed an-chor,” and left. They went past
Nat-chez, an old town set-tled by the French when they took the tract
which is now Lou-is-i-an-a. The hou-ses were of a strange form to the
boat-men. The words they heard were in a tongue they did not know.
They passed large plan-ta-tions, and saw groups of huts built for the
slaves. At New Or-leans, in the old part of the town where they staid,
all things were so odd that it seemed as if they were in a land be-yond
the great sea. When they had left their car-go in its right place, they
went back to In-di-an-a, and Mr. Gen-try thought they had done well.
A-bra-ham had more to think of when he came home. He had seen so much
on his trip that the world was not quite the same to him. Scores of
flat-boats were moored at lev-ees, steam-boats went and came, big
ships were at an-chor in the riv-er. Men were there who sailed far
o-ver the seas in search of gold, rich goods, sights of pla-ces, tribes
and climes to which Lin-coln had not giv-en much thought. If oth-er men
went out in-to the world, why might he not go? Why stay in this dull
place and toil for naught? He had come to an age in which there was
un-rest. His fa-ther’s wish was that he should push a plane and use a
saw all his days. This sort of work did not suit him. Why not strike
out? Then the thought came to him that his time was not yet his own.
His moth-er’s words spoke to him as they did when he was a small boy at
her bed-side for the last time; “Be kind to your fa-ther.”
[Illustration: LINCOLN’S HOME IN GENTRYVILLE.]
So A-bra-ham went back to Pig-eon Creek to work and bide his time.