GOD'S LITTLE GIRL
Early in the spring John Rutledge decided to move from Rutledge Inn to
his farm about seven miles beyond New Salem.
Mrs. Rutledge and Ann suffered the pangs of heart that come to women
when they must leave homes made dear by the birth of children and of
love. Aside from the sentiment, however, Mrs. Rutledge was glad to
change to farm life, for inn-keeping had been hard for her.
Ann's chief objection was going where she could not see Abe Lincoln
often, for his surveying was already taking him much away, and they
both knew he could not find time often to visit the farm. It was
also decided at this time that the wedding of Ann and Abe should be
postponed for a year.
"Ann needs more education," Mr. Rutledge had said, "and a woman has to
get what she is going to before she has the cares of a home and family.
And, too, you should finish your law course. Then you and Ann can set
out in life together."
"Perhaps you are right," Abe Lincoln said. "Of course I want Ann, and
the sooner the better. But I can't support her yet, and I guess it's
not fair to take her away."
"I wasn't thinking of that at all. You could get along some way, but
you are both young, and a year will soon pass."
Shortly after this Ann began studying with Miss Arminda Rogers, a
cultured and efficient instructor who was to prepare her for a year at
the Jacksonville Academy, one of the best in the state. Abe Lincoln was
to work by day and study by night to finish his law course.
The young people of New Salem were sorry to see Ann leave, but seven
miles was not too much of a walk, and many good times were planned. The
most important merry-making on hand was a May party to be held on the
green beyond New Salem. Abe Lincoln and Ann had both promised to be
present, and all the young people in the country about, even to "Baby"
Green, were looking forward to it with pleasure.
It was a merry day. Abe Lincoln romped with the small boys. He climbed
saplings and twisted the tender branches so they would grow into
canes to be some time carried to Springfield. He swung the girls in
grape-vine swings. He held one end of the jumping-rope while Ann
Rutledge jumped one hundred, and her combs flew out and her auburn hair
went streaming over her shoulders. Then he picked up the combs and
tried to twist her hair for her, and the children laughed at his clumsy
effort and Ann's funny coiffure. Later they twined a vine with flowers
about her, and made her Queen of May, while everybody young and old
joined hands in a ring and danced around singing:
Kneel to the prettiest,
Bow to the wittiest,
Kiss her who you love best.
"Who is the prettiest?" Abe Lincoln shouted.
"Ann Rutledge," the children shouted back. Then they dared him to kiss
her, which he did while they clapped their hands.
Then the smallest girl, who was "Baby" Green, was told to pick the
prettiest man, and she called in her piping voice "Linkin--Linkin," and
then screamed with fear lest Ann Rutledge should kiss him and not she
herself, and again the children cheered and laughed.
After the games and the merriment Ann and Abe Lincoln slipped away.
"I want to go to my schoolroom," she said.
"Your schoolroom?" he questioned.
"Yes, down to the creek where the ferns grow. I have no such place at
the farm, and I miss it, for the fern dell is a schoolroom where I
learn wonderful lessons from the growing things, and from the little
brook which goes on its unknown way to find its mother, the ocean."
So they started away across the field toward the creek. They did not
notice the cloud above their heads until they felt raindrops on their
shoulders.
"Let's run," Ann said, "over under the haystacks. It's only a shower."
But before they got to the haystack they were both wet. When Abe
Lincoln expressed some concern about Ann she only laughed and said, "Am
I sugar or salt that I cannot stand a little water?"
"But you are so hot now. You ran as fast as I did, Ann."
Together they drew close back under the straw and did not mind the
minutes lost, for there was always much to talk about.
When the shower had passed, they went on around the hill down to the
creek. Here they found the little stream considerably swollen. Coming
to the place where, on the opposite bank, the ferns were growing, Ann
stepped to the water's edge and standing on a stone sang:
On Jordan's stormy banks I stand
And cast a wistful eye.
The next moment Abe Lincoln had taken her in his strong arms and put
her across to the other bank.
"Look, Abraham," she said pointing to the lacy, green leaves. "Do you
notice that some are longer than others and greener and stronger? Well,
in this difference lies a secret."
She sat down on a shelf of rock and began pushing the brown leaves and
mould away from something. Her face was bright with interest. But Abe
Lincoln was not yet interested in what she was, but in her. "See here
is the dirt in which this little sickly plant grows and its roots go no
farther than this," and she measured a finger length. "But the roots
of this big, strong plant go too deep for measurement, and so I learn
that the blacker the soil, and the deeper the plant goes into the dark
and the silence, the higher it reaches toward the blue sky. Isn't it
wonderful that even little plants can preach such great sermons?"
"Tongues in the trees, books in the runnin' brooks, sermons in stones
and good in everything," Abe Lincoln repeated.
"That sounds like the Bible, but I've never found it there."
"It got left out," he laughed. "Shakespeare put it in his."
Ann smiled, but she had something more to say.
"When I come here, Abraham, I think of you. I can't say you are like
a fern, they are too small and weak among the growing things. You
are like a wonderful tree that reaches up above every other, and the
reason, I am sure, is because the roots of your life have gone deeper
into the dark and the silence than the rest of them. When I hear them
talking in class-meeting about 'growing in grace and the knowledge of
God,' I think of you and my ferns, and I say, 'Out of the depths, fresh
strength; out of the dark, new life; and even in the gloom we are on
the way.'"
He was listening intently now. "But, Ann," he said, "the ferns come to
life only to die again."
"Yes, and come back more and better the next season. It is not the
special leaf nor flower that is eternal; these are but the forms. It is
_life itself_ that is eternal. And the burial in the dark does not kill
it. Last year there were two leaves here, this year there are six, next
year there will be a whole family. It is life more abundant, Abraham,
and from it all I learn to go on my way as the brook goes, singing
always."
For a moment there was no sound in the fern-dell except the tinkling
music of the water running over the stones.
"I wonder what it all means," he observed. "Sometimes I feel that I am
a child of some dark tragedy. Again I feel like I am a child of special
Providence. I wonder which I am--perhaps neither."
"Perhaps both," she said "Great suffering and great joy belong to the
same soul."
Ann was still sitting on the damp rock with her vine wreath in her
hair. Through the tall trunks of the trees on the bluff above, the
sun-light fell into the ravine, a ray falling across her head and
shoulders.
As if he had forgotten everything else, Abe Lincoln now turned his
attention to her. He looked long and earnestly.
"Ann--Ann--is it true?"
"What?" she said with some surprise.
"That you are mine."
"What a strange question."
"I am afraid sometimes that it is too good to be true. I have never
known such happiness--such riches--such enlargement of my soul as
since I have known you. Many men have claimed to get to God through his
Son. I am findin' my way through one of his daughters."
"No--no--I am only God's little girl--his little schoolgirl, and
just beginning to learn. Sometimes I cannot understand it from the
preachers, but here God teaches me quite easily."
"God's little girl," he repeated. "Well, I need not be jealous of Him.
He will give me a square deal. He'll not take you away from me."
"Oh, Abraham," she said, rising hurriedly, "I am going to--to----," and
she sneezed.
"You are catching cold," he said, stooping to pick up the vine leaves
that had fallen from her head. "What did I let you sit on that damp
stone for? I don't know the first thing about takin' care of a woman."
"You will have plenty of time to learn," she laughed, holding out her
hands for the wreath.
"I should like to keep this always, but it will wither."
"Let us leave the Queen's crown on her throne," and he took the wreath
from her and put it on the stone where she had been sitting.
Then, with his strong arms to help her, they left the quiet place,
climbed the bluff and hurried home across lots to the Rutledge farm.