How would you like to have begun life in a little log cabin set in the
midst of a western wilderness? Suppose, too, that the cabin had no
window and so many cracks that it let in the winter winds and even the
snow!
That was how little Abe first saw life a long time ago, in February of
1809. It was rough life for a small boy. Even his mother had to know
how to shoot, for the cabin was in the woods where wild beasts and
Indians surrounded it. There was nothing to eat except what Abe's
father raised or hunted. They had nothing to wear except the cloth his
mother spun and wove, or the skins of animals.
By the time little Abe was six years old, though, he had learned more
than a boy of that age to-day. He could fish and hunt. He was not
afraid of Indians. He could catch hold of a sycamore tree on the edge
of the brook outside the cabin, and swing himself way across the
brook.
But little Abe's father was not satisfied with his boy's knowing only
how to live an outdoor life. He could not read himself, but it was his
great longing that little Abe should have this knowledge.
It was when Abe was seven years old and his sister, Sarah, a year
younger, that their father spoke about this.
"I want the children to learn to read," he said. "There is a man in a
shanty down the road who knows how. He can't write, but he could teach
Abe and Sarah their letters."
So the two little folks started off, Abe in a linsey-woolsey suit,
buckskin breeches, and a coonskin cap. It was a long walk, and the
children had only hoe cake to carry for their dinner, but they were
strong and sturdy. They were clever, too. In a few weeks, Abe knew as
much as the school-master. Then he began to wish, oh, so much, that he
had some books to read at home in the cabin.
There was a Bible at home, an old catechism, and a spelling book. Abe
read these over and over again in the dim candle light of the cabin.
One day his father surprised him. He brought him a new book. It was
Pilgrim's Progress, the most wonderful story, little Abe thought, that
he had ever read. It was only a borrowed book; books cost a very great
deal of money in those long-ago days, more than Mr. Lincoln could pay.
He was able to borrow more, though. Little Abe read Æsop's fables,
and he liked them so much that he learned the stories by heart. He
could tell the fable of the Hare and the Tortoise, the Crow and the
Pitcher, and many others.
It made Abe so happy to have these books that he made up his mind to
try to do something, in return, to surprise his father. It was spring
of the year and Abe and his father were plowing, turning up the soft
brown earth, ready for the new seeds. Mr. Lincoln missed his boy. He
looked back, and what do you think he saw? Abe had spelled with a
stick, in the soft brown earth, his own name. His father had not known
that he could write, but there were the letters as plainly outlined as
if they had been in a copy book: ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
He had taught himself to write by practising in the snow, and making
letters on the logs of the cabin walls with pieces of charcoal.
A great deal began to happen now to Abraham, although he was only
eight years old. His father decided to travel a hundred miles from
Kentucky to a new farm in Indiana to see if he might not be a little
more prosperous. There were no railroads. There was not even a stage
route. They packed their bedding on two horses and set out on the
journey overland. It took seven days, sleeping on the ground under
the stars at night. And when they reached the new home, there was not
even a shelter waiting for them. A road had been cut through the
forests, but all the clearing was yet to be done.
Abraham had an axe of his own and he went to work with it. He was a
true pioneer boy, and not one bit afraid of work. He cut poles while
his father laid the foundations of the new cabin. They were only able
to put up a "half-faced" camp at first, with three sides and one side
open. And it was hard work. The great, unhewn logs had to be all
notched and fitted together, and the cracks filled in with clay. They
made a loft, and fitted in a door and a window. Abraham learned how to
make a table and some stools. Then, after the bitter winter was over,
the spring brought them more comfort and happiness. The corn and
vegetables they planted came up, and Abraham had a little time to read
again.
He had a new book, now, that a neighbor had let him take. It was the
story of a boy who had, also, in his little boy days, an axe like
Abraham's; but he had used it to cut down his father's cherry tree.
When he had grown to be a man, though, he was our Great American.
Abraham took this book, the Life of George Washington, to bed with him
and read it when the snow was sifting in through the cabin roof and
over his quilt. He read the book many times.
"What are you going to be when you grow up?" the neighbor asked
Abraham.
"I am going to be the President of the United States," the boy
replied.
Every one thought this a very good joke, for Abraham was growing up
now. He had legs that were too long for his body and it was the same
way with his arms. He was almost six feet tall although he was not yet
fifteen years old. His head, set on top of his long neck, looked
almost out of place. People laughed when they compared him with other
Presidents of the United States.
Abraham kept his thought in his mind, though, and he went on working,
and reading when he had time in the fire light of the long winter
evenings. As he threshed, and chopped, and plowed, he could not help
dreaming a little. All his life he had worked hard for others, and he
really liked this kind of work more than any other. He wanted to go on
helping others, only in a greater, broader way.
We all know what happened to Abraham Lincoln. His dream came true. He
was our noblest President and carried on his broad shoulders the
burdens of the slaves. It was a long road from the little log cabin in
Kentucky to the White House at Washington, but President Lincoln,
himself, tells us how he made the journey.
He was visiting, once, a hospital full of wounded soldiers. There were
several thousand of them, and each one of them loved Mr. Lincoln so
that he wanted to shake hands with him. He took and held the hand of
each. It was enough to cripple an ordinary man, but Mr. Lincoln's
kind, plain face was smiling when some one asked if he were tired.
"Oh, no," he said. "The hardships of my boyhood made me strong."
Very likely, too, it was the struggles of learning to write on bare
boards and in the earth that helped Abraham Lincoln to write his name
in letters of gold on our history pages.