Poor young ones! she thought. Aloud she said, "Well, let's n_Abe Lincoln Gets His Chance

Produced by Mark C. Orton, Janet Blenkinship and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

[Illustration]

~WEEKLY READER~

Children's Book Club

Education Center · Columbus 16, Ohio

PRESENTS

~Abe Lincoln Gets His Chance~

[Illustration]

_by_ ~FRANCES CAVANAH~

_illustrated by_ Paula Hutchison

RAND McNALLY & COMPANY

CHICAGO · NEW YORK · SAN FRANCISCO

_This book is dedicated to my grandnephew_

~PHILIP JAN NADELMAN~

~WEEKLY READER Children's Book Club Edition, 1959~

BY RAND McNALLY & COMPANY

PRINTED IN U.S.A.

BY AMERICAN BOOK-STRATFORD PRESS, INC., N.Y.

A LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 59-5789

In writing this story of Abraham Lincoln, the author depended primarily

on Lincoln's own statements and on the statements of his family and

friends who had firsthand knowledge of his everyday life. In instances

when dialogue had to be imagined, the conversation might logically have

taken place in the light of known circumstances. Such descriptive

details as were necessarily added were based on authentic accounts of

pioneer times.

F.C.

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[Illustration: Map of States where Lincoln was born and lived]

[Illustration]

There was a new boy baby at the Lincoln cabin! By cracky! thought Dennis

Hanks as he hurried up the path, he was going to like having a boy

cousin. They could go swimming together. Maybe they could play Indian.

Dennis pushed open the cabin door.

"Where is he?" he shouted. "Where is he?"

"Sh!" A neighbor, who had come in to help, put her finger to her lips.

"The baby is asleep."

Nancy Lincoln was lying on the pole bed in a corner of the one-room

house. She looked very white under the dark bearskin covering, but when

she heard Dennis she raised her head. "It's all right, Denny," she said.

"You can see him now."

Dennis tiptoed over to the bed. A small bundle, wrapped in a homespun

shawl, rested in the curve of Nancy's arm. When she pulled back the

shawl, Dennis could not think of anything to say. The baby was so

wrinkled and so red. It looked just like a cherry after the juice had

been squeezed out.

Nancy touched one of the tiny hands with the tip of her finger. "See his

wee red fists and the way he throws them around!" she said.

"What's his name?" Dennis asked at last.

"We're calling him after his grandpappy. Abraham Lincoln!"

"That great big name for that scrawny little mite?"

Nancy sounded hurt. "Give him a chance to grow, will you?"

Then she saw that Dennis was only teasing. "You wait!" she went on. "It

won't be long before Abe will be running around in buckskin breeches and

a coonskin cap."

"Well, maybe--"

The door opened, and Tom Lincoln, the baby's father, came in. With him

was Aunt Betsy Sparrow. She kissed Nancy and carried the baby over to a

stool by the fireplace. Making little cooing noises under her breath,

she dressed him in a white shirt and a yellow flannel petticoat. Sally

Lincoln, two years old, who did not know quite what to make of the new

brother, came over and stood beside her. Dennis drew up another stool

and watched.

Aunt Betsy looked across at him and smiled. Dennis, an orphan, lived

with her and she knew that he was often lonely. There weren't many

people living in Kentucky in the year 1809, and Dennis had no boys to

play with.

"I reckon you're mighty tickled to have a new cousin," she said.

"I--I guess so," said Dennis slowly.

"Want to hold him?"

Dennis was not quite sure whether he did or not. Before he could answer,

Aunt Betsy laid the baby in his arms. Sally edged closer. She started to

put out her hand, but pulled it back. Abraham was so small that she was

afraid to touch him.

"Don't you fret, Sally," said Dennis. "Cousin Nancy said that he is

going to grow. And when he does, do you know what I'm going to do? I'm

going to teach him to swim."

[Illustration]

Looking down into the tiny red face, Dennis felt a sudden warm glow in

his heart. "Yes, and we can go fishing down at the creek. When I go to

the mill to get the corn ground, he can come along. He can ride behind

me on the horse, and when it goes cloppety-clop--"

Dennis swung the baby back and forth. It puckered up its face and began

to cry. Dennis caught his breath in dismay. How could such a large noise

come out of such a small body?

"Here, Aunt, take him quick!"

He looked at Cousin Nancy out of the corner of his eye. "I reckon he'll

never come to much."

"Now, Dennis Hanks, I want you to behave," said Aunt Betsy, but this

time Nancy paid no attention to his teasing. She held out her arms for

her son and cuddled him against her breast.

"As I told you," she said gaily, "you have to give him a chance to

grow."

It was almost dark by the time Aunt Betsy had tidied the one-room

cabin. She cooked some dried berries for Nancy, and fed Sally. Dennis

begged to spend the night. After his aunt had put on her shawl and left

for her own cabin, he curled up in a bearskin on the floor.

"Denny," asked Nancy, "what day is this?"

"It's Sunday--"

"I mean what day of the month."

"I don't rightly know, Cousin Nancy."

"I remember now," she went on. "It is the twelfth day of February.

February 12, 1809! Little Abe's birthday!"

Outside the wind rose, whistling through the bare branches of the trees.

There was a blast of cold air as the door opened. Tom came in, his arms

piled high with wood. He knelt on the dirt floor to build up the fire,

and the rising flames lit the log walls with a faint red glow.

"Are you glad it's a boy, Tom?" Nancy asked as he lay down beside her.

"I am."

"Yes," said Tom, but when she spoke to him again, he did not answer. He

was asleep. She could see his tired face in the firelight. Life had been

hard for Tom; it was hard for most pioneers. She hoped that their

children would have things a little easier. The baby whimpered, and she

held him closer.

Denny's voice piped up: "Cousin Nancy, will Abe ever grow to be as big

as me?"

"Bigger'n you are now," she told him.

"Will he grow as big as Cousin Tom?"

"Bigger'n anybody, maybe."

Nancy looked down at her son, now peacefully asleep. She made a song for

him, a song so soft it was almost a whisper: "Abe--Abe," she crooned.

"Abe Lincoln, you be going to grow--and grow--and grow!"

[Illustration]

Abraham Lincoln did grow. He seemed to grow bigger every day. By the

time he was seven, he was as tall as his sister, although Sally was two

years older. That fall their father made a trip up to Indiana.

"Why did Pappy go so far away?" Sally asked one afternoon.

"When is he coming home?" asked Abe.

"Pretty soon, most likely."

Nancy laid down her sewing and tried to explain. Their pa had had a hard

time making a living for them. He was looking for a better farm. Tom was

also a carpenter. Maybe some of the new settlers who were going to

Indiana to live would give him work. Anyway, he thought that poor folks

were better off up there.

Abe looked surprised. He had never thought about being poor. There were

so many things that he liked to do in Kentucky. He liked to go swimming

with Dennis after his chores were done. There were fish to be caught and

caves to explore. He and Sally had had a chance to go to school for a

few weeks. Abe could write his name, just like his father. He could read

much better. Tom knew a few words, but his children could read whole

sentences.

[Illustration]

Abe leaned up against his mother. "Tell us the story with our names," he

begged.

Nancy put her arm around him. She often told the children stories from

the Bible. One of their favorites was about Abraham and Sarah. "Now the

Lord said unto Abraham," she began--and stopped to listen.

The door opened, and Tom Lincoln stood grinning down at them. "Well,

folks," he said, "we're moving to Indiany."

Nancy and the children, taken by surprise, asked questions faster than

Tom could answer them. He had staked out a claim about a hundred miles

to the north, at a place called Pigeon Creek. He was buying the land

from the government and could take his time to pay for it. He wanted to

start for Indiana at once, before the weather got any colder.

[Illustration]

It did not take long to get ready. A few possessions--a skillet, several

pans, the water buckets, the fire shovel, a few clothes, a homespun

blanket, a patchwork quilt, and several bearskins--were packed on the

back of one of the horses. Nancy and Sally rode on the other horse. Abe

and his father walked. At night they camped along the way.

When at last they reached the Ohio River, Abe stared in surprise. It was

so blue, so wide, so much bigger than the creek where he and Dennis had

gone swimming. There were so many boats. One of them, a long low raft,

was called a ferry. The Lincolns went right on board with their pack

horses, and it carried them across the shining water to the wooded

shores of Indiana.

Indiana was a much wilder place than Kentucky. There was no road

leading to Pigeon Creek; only a path through the forest. It was so

narrow that sometimes Tom had to clear away some underbrush before they

could go on. Or else he had to stop to cut down a tree that stood in

their way. Abe, who was big and strong for his age, had his own little

ax. He helped his father all he could.

Fourteen miles north of the river, they came to a cleared place in the

forest. Tom called it his "farm." He hastily put up a shelter--a camp

made of poles and brush and leaves--where they could stay until he had

time to build a cabin. It had only three walls. The fourth side was left

open, and in this open space Tom built a fire. The children helped their

mother to unpack, and she mixed batter for cornbread in a big iron

skillet. She cut up a squirrel that Tom had shot earlier in the day, and

cooked it over the campfire.

"Now if you will fetch me your plates," she said, "we'll have our

supper."

The plates were only slabs of bark. On each slab Nancy put a piece of

fried squirrel and a hunk of cornbread. The children sank down on one of

the bearskins to eat their first meal in their new home. By this time it

was quite dark. They could see only a few feet beyond the circle of

light made by their campfire.

Nancy shivered. She knew that they had neighbors. Tom had told her there

were seven other families living at Pigeon Creek. But the trees were so

tall, the night so black, that she had a strange feeling that they were

the only people alive for miles around.

"Don't you like it here, Mammy?" Abe asked. To him this camping out was

an adventure, but he wanted his mother to like it, too.

"I'm just feeling a little cold," she told him.

"I like it," said Sally decidedly. "But it is sort of scary. Are you

scared, Abe?"

"Me?" Abe stuck out his chest. "What is there to be scared of?"

At that moment a long-drawn-out howl came from the forest. Another

seemed to come from just beyond their campfire. Then another and

another--each howl louder and closer. The black curtain of the night

was pierced by two green spots of light. The children huddled against

their mother, but Tom Lincoln laughed.

"I reckon I know what you're scared of. A wolf."

"A wolf?" Sally shrieked.

"Yep. See its green eyes. But it won't come near our fire."

He got up and threw on another log. As the flames blazed higher, the

green lights disappeared. There was a crashing sound in the underbrush.

"Hear him running away? Cowardly varmint!" Tom sat down again. "No wolf

will hurt us if we keep our fire going."

It was a busy winter. Abe worked side by side with his father. How that

boy can chop! thought Nancy, as she heard the sound of his ax biting

into wood. Tree after tree had to be cut down before crops could be

planted. With the coming of spring, he helped his father to plow the

stumpy ground. He learned to plow a straight furrow. He planted seeds in

the furrows.

In the meantime, some of the neighbors helped Tom build a cabin. It had

one room, with a tiny loft above. The floor was packed-down dirt. There

were no windows. The only door was a long, up-and-down hole cut in one

wall and covered by a bearskin. But Tom had made a table and several

three-legged stools, and there was a pole bed in one corner. Nancy was

glad to be living in a real house again, and she kept it neat and clean.

She was no longer lonely. Aunt Betsy and her husband, Uncle Thomas,

brought Dennis with them from Kentucky to live in the shelter near the

Lincoln cabin. Several other new settlers arrived, settlers with

children. A schoolmaster, Andrew Crawford, decided to start a school.

"Maybe you'll have a chance to go, Abe," Nancy told him. "You know what

the schoolmaster down in Kentucky said. He said you were a learner."

Abe looked up at her and smiled. He was going to like living in Indiana!

[Illustration]

But sad days were coming to Pigeon Creek. There was a terrible sickness.

Aunt Betsy and Uncle Thomas died, and Dennis came to live with the

Lincolns. Then Nancy was taken ill. After she died, her family felt that

nothing would ever be the same again.

Sally tried to keep house, but she was only twelve. The one little room

and the loft above looked dirtier and more and more gloomy as the weeks

went by. Sally found that cooking for four people was not easy. The

smoke from the fireplace got into her eyes. Some days Tom brought home a

rabbit or a squirrel for her to fry. On other days, it was too cold to

go hunting. Then there was only cornbread to eat and Sally's cornbread

wasn't very good.

It was hard to know who missed Nancy more--Tom or the children. He sat

around the cabin looking cross and glum. The ground was frozen, so very

little work could be done on the farm. He decided, when Andrew Crawford

started his school, that Abe and Sally might as well go. There was

nothing else for them to do, and Nancy would have wanted it.

For the first time since his mother's death Abe seemed to cheer up.

Every morning, except when there were chores to do at home, he and Sally

took a path through the woods to the log schoolhouse. Master Crawford

kept a "blab" school. The "scholars," as he called his pupils, studied

their lessons out loud. The louder they shouted, the better he liked it.

If a scholar didn't know his lesson, he had to stand in the corner with

a long pointed cap on his head. This was called a dunce cap.

One boy who never had to wear a dunce cap was Abe Lincoln. He was too

smart. His side won nearly every spelling match. He was good at

figuring, and he had the best handwriting of anyone at school. Master

Crawford taught reading from the Bible, but he had several other books

from which he read aloud. Among Abe's favorite stories were the ones

about some wise animals that talked. They were by a man named Aesop who

had lived hundreds of years before.

Abe even made up compositions of his own. He called them "sentences."

One day he found some of the boys being cruel to a terrapin, or turtle.

He made them stop. Then he wrote a composition in which he said that

animals had feelings the same as folks.

Sometimes Abe's sentences rhymed. There was one rhyme that the children

thought was a great joke:

"Abe Lincoln, his hand and pen,

He will be good, but God knows when."

"That Abe Lincoln is funny enough to make a cat laugh," they said.

They always had a good time watching Abe during the class in "Manners."

Once a week Master Crawford had them practice being ladies and

gentlemen. One scholar would pretend to be a stranger who had just

arrived in Pigeon Creek. He would leave the schoolhouse, come back,

and knock at the door. Another scholar would greet "the stranger," lead

him around the room, and introduce him.

One day it was Abe's turn to do the introducing. He opened the door to

find his best friend, Nat Grigsby, waiting outside. Nat bowed low, from

the waist. Abe bowed. His buckskin trousers, already too short, slipped

up still farther, showing several inches of his bare leg. He looked so

solemn that some of the girls giggled. The schoolmaster frowned and

pounded on his desk. The giggling stopped.

"Master Crawford," said Abe, "this here is Mr. Grigsby. His pa just

moved to these parts. He figures on coming to your school."

Andrew Crawford rose and bowed. "Welcome," he said. "Mr. Lincoln,

introduce Mr. Grigsby to the other scholars."

[Illustration]

The children sat on two long benches made of split logs. Abe led Nat

down the length of the front bench. Each girl rose and made a curtsy.

Nat bowed. Each boy rose and bowed. Nat returned the bow. Abe kept

saying funny things under his breath that the schoolmaster could not

hear. But the children heard, and they could hardly keep from laughing

out loud.

Sally sat on the second bench. "Mrs. Lincoln," said Abe in a high

falsetto voice, "this here be Mr. Grigsby."

While she was making her curtsy, Sally's cheeks suddenly grew red.

"Don't let on I told you, Mr. Grigsby," Abe whispered, "but Mrs. Lincoln

bakes the worst cornbread of anyone in Pigeon Creek."

Sally forgot that they were having a lesson in manners. "Don't you dare

talk about my cornbread," she said angrily.

The little log room rocked with laughter. This time Master Crawford had

also heard Abe's remark. He walked over to the corner where he kept a

bundle of switches. He picked one up and laid it across his desk.

"We'll have no more monkeyshines," he said severely. "Go on with the

introducing."

One day Abe almost got into real trouble. He had started for school

early, as he often did, so that he could read one of Master Crawford's

books. He was feeling sad as he walked through the woods; he seemed to

miss his mother more each day. When he went into the schoolhouse, he

looked up and saw a pair of deer antlers. Master Crawford had gone

hunting. He had shot a deer and nailed the antlers above the door.

What a wonderful place to swing! thought Abe. He leaped up and caught

hold of the prongs. He began swinging back and forth.

CRASH! One prong came off in his hand, and he fell to the floor. He

hurried to his seat, hoping that the master would not notice.

But Master Crawford was proud of those antlers. When he saw what had

happened, he picked up the switch on his desk. It made a swishing sound

as he swung it back and forth.

"Who broke my deer antlers?" he shouted.

No one answered. Abe hunched down as far as he could on the bench. He

seemed to be trying to hide inside his buckskin shirt.

Master Crawford repeated his question. "Who broke my deer antlers? I

aim to find out, if I have to thrash every scholar in this school."

All of the children looked scared, Abe most of all. But he stood up. He

marched up to Master Crawford's desk and held out the broken prong that

he had been hiding in his hand.

"I did it, sir," he said. "I didn't mean to do it, but I hung on the

antlers and they broke. I wouldn't have done it, if I had thought they'd

a broke."

The other scholars thought that Abe would get a licking. Instead, Master

Crawford told him to stay in after school. They had a long talk. He

liked Abe's honesty in owning up to what he had done. He knew how much

he missed his mother. Perhaps he understood that sometimes a boy "cuts

up" to try to forget how sad he feels.

Abe felt sadder than ever after Master Crawford moved away from Pigeon

Creek. Then Tom Lincoln left. One morning he rode off on horseback

without telling anyone where he was going. Several days went by. Even

easy-going Dennis was worried when Tom did not return.

Abe did most of the chores. In the evening he practiced his sums. Master

Crawford had taught him to do easy problems in arithmetic, and he did

not want to forget what he had learned. He had no pen, no ink, not even

a piece of paper. He took a burnt stick from the fireplace and worked

his sums on a flat board.

He wished that he had a book to read. Instead, he tried to remember the

stories that the schoolmaster had told. He repeated them to Sally and

Dennis, as they huddled close to the fire to keep warm. He said them

again to himself after he went to bed in the loft.

There were words in some of the stories that Abe did not understand. He

tried to figure out what the words meant. He thought about the people in

the stories. He thought about the places mentioned and wondered what

they were like.

There were thoughts inside Abraham Lincoln's head that even Sally did

not know anything about.

[Illustration]

Abe took another bite of cornbread and swallowed hard. "Don't you like

it?" asked Sally anxiously. "I know it doesn't taste like the cornbread

Mammy used to make."

She looked around the room. The furniture was the same as their mother

had used--a homemade table and a few three-legged stools. The same

bearskin hung before the hole in the wall that was their only door. But

Nancy had kept the cabin clean. She had known how to build a fire that

didn't smoke. Sally glanced down at her faded linsey-woolsey dress,

soiled with soot. The dirt floor felt cold to her bare feet. Her last

pair of moccasins had worn out weeks ago.

"I don't mind the cornbread--at least, not much." Abe finished his

piece, down to the last crumb. "If I seem down in the mouth, Sally, it

is just because--"

[Illustration]

He walked over to the fireplace, where he stood with his back to the

room.

"He misses Nancy," said Dennis bluntly, "the same as the rest of us.

Then Tom has been gone for quite a spell."

Sally put her hand on Abe's shoulder. "I'm scared. Do you reckon

something has happened to Pappy? Isn't he ever coming back?"

Abe stared into the fire. He was thinking of the wolves and panthers

loose in the woods. There were many dangers for a man riding alone over

the rough forest paths. The boy wanted to say something to comfort

Sally, but he had to tell the truth. "I don't know, I--"

He stopped to listen. Few travelers passed by their cabin in the winter,

but he was sure that he heard a faint noise in the distance. It sounded

like the creak of wheels. The noise came again--this time much closer. A

man's voice was shouting: "Get-up! Get-up!"

"Maybe it's Pappy!" Abe pushed aside the bearskin and rushed outside.

Sally and Dennis were right behind him.

"It _is_ Pappy," Sally cried. "But look--"

Tom Lincoln had left Pigeon Creek on horseback. He was returning in a

wagon drawn by four horses. He was not alone. A strange woman sat beside

him, holding a small boy in her lap. Two girls, one about Sally's age,

the other about eight, stood behind her. The wagon was piled high with

furniture--more furniture than the Lincoln children had ever seen.

"Whoa, there!" Tom Lincoln pulled at the reins and brought the wagon to

a stop before the door.

"Here we are, Sarah." He jumped down and held out his hand to help the

woman.

She was very neat looking, tall and straight, with neat little curls

showing at the edge of her brown hood. She said, "Tsch! Tsch!" when she

saw Tom's children. She stared at their soiled clothing, their matted

hair, their faces smudged with soot. "Tsch! Tsch!" she said again, and

Abe felt hot all over in spite of the cold wind. He dug the toe of his

moccasin into the frozen ground.

"Abe! Sally!" their father said. "I've brought you a new mammy. This

here is the Widow Johnston. That is, she was the Widow Johnston." He

cleared his throat. "She is Mrs. Lincoln now. I've been back to Kentucky

to get myself a wife."

"Howdy!" The new Mrs. Lincoln was trying to sound cheerful. She beckoned

to the children in the wagon. They jumped down and stood beside her.

"These here are my young ones," she went on. "The big gal is Betsy. The

other one is Mathilda. This little shaver is Johnny."

Dennis came forward to be introduced, but he had eyes only for Betsy.

She gave him a coy look out of her china-blue eyes. Tilda smiled shyly

at Sally. Both of the Johnston girls wore pretty linsey-woolsey dresses

under their shawls and neat moccasins on their feet. Sally, looking down

at her own soiled dress and bare toes, wished that she could run away

and hide. Abe said "Howdy" somewhere down inside his stomach.

Sarah, Tom's new wife, looked around the littered yard, then at the

cabin. It did not even have a window! It did not have a door that would

open and shut--only a ragged bearskin flapping in the wind. She had

known Tom since he was a boy and had always liked him. Her first

husband, Mr. Johnston, had died some time before, and when Tom had

returned to Kentucky and asked her to marry him, she had said yes. He

had told her that his children needed a mother's care, and he was right.

Poor young ones! she thought. Aloud she said, "Well, let's not all

stand out here and freeze. Can't we go inside and get warm?"

The inside of the cabin seemed almost as cold as the outdoors. And even

more untidy. Johnny clung to his mother's skirt and started to cry. He

wanted to go back to Kentucky. His sisters peered through the gloom,

trying to see in the dim light. Sally was sure that they were looking at

her. She sat down hastily and tucked her feet as far back as she could

under the stool. Abe stood quite still, watching this strange woman who

had come without warning to take his mother's place.

She smiled at him. He did not smile back.

Slowly she turned and looked around. Her clear gray eyes took in every

nook, every crack of the miserable little one-room house. She noticed

the dirty bearskins piled on the pole bed in the corner. She saw the

pegs in the wall that led to the loft. The fire smoldering in the

fireplace gave out more smoke than heat.

"The first thing we'd better do," she said, taking off her bonnet, "is

to build up that fire. Then we'll get some victuals ready. I reckon

everybody will feel better when we've had a bite to eat."

From that moment things began to happen in the Lincoln cabin. Tom went

out to the wagon to unhitch the horses. Dennis brought in more firewood.

Abe and Mathilda started for the spring, swinging the water pail between

them. Betsy mixed a fresh batch of cornbread in the iron skillet, and

Sally set it on the hearth to bake. Tom came back from the wagon,

carrying a comb of honey and a slab of bacon, and soon the magic smell

of frying bacon filled the air. There were no dishes, but Sally kept

large pieces of bark in the cupboard. Eight people sat down at the one

little table, but no one seemed to mind that it was crowded.

The Lincoln children had almost forgotten how good bacon could taste.

Abe ate in silence, his eyes on his plate. Sally seemed to feel much

better. Sitting between her stepsisters, she was soon chattering with

them as though they were old friends. Once she called the new Mrs.

Lincoln "Mamma," just as her own daughters did. Dennis sat on the other

side of Betsy. He seemed to be enjoying himself most of all. He sopped

up his last drop of golden honey on his last piece of cornbread.

[Illustration]

"I declare," he said, grinning, "we ain't had a meal like this since

Nancy died."

Abe jumped up at the mention of his mother's name. He was afraid that he

was going to cry. He had started for the door, when he felt his father's

rough hand on his shoulder.

"Abe Lincoln, you set right down there and finish your cornbread."

Abe looked up at Tom out of frightened gray eyes. But he shook his head.

"I can't, Pa."

"A nice way to treat your new ma!" Tom Lincoln sounded both angry and

embarrassed. "You clean up your plate or I'll give you a good hiding."

The young Johnstons gasped. Abe could hear Sally's whisper: "Please,

Abe! Do as Pa says." Then he heard another voice.

"Let the boy be, Tom." It was Sarah Lincoln speaking.

There was something about the way she said it that made Abe decide to

come back and sit down. He managed somehow to eat the rest of his

cornbread. He looked up and saw that she was smiling at him again. He

almost smiled back.

Sarah looked relieved. "Abe and I," she said, "are going to have plenty

of chance to get acquainted."

[Illustration]

Sarah Rose from the table. "There's a lot of work to be done here," she

announced, "before we can bring in my plunder." She meant her furniture

and other possessions in the wagon. "First, we'll need plenty of hot

water. Who wants to go to the spring?"

She was looking at Abe. "I'll go, ma'am." He grabbed the water bucket

and hurried through the door.

Abe made several trips to the spring that afternoon. Each bucket full of

water that he brought back was poured into the big iron kettle over the

fireplace. Higher and higher roared the flames. When Sarah wasn't asking

for more water, she was asking for more wood. The steady chop-chop of

Tom's ax could be heard from the wood lot.

Everyone was working, even Dennis. Sarah gave him a pan of soap and hot

water and told him to wash the cabin walls. The girls scrubbed the

table, the three-legged stools, and the corner cupboard inside and out.

Sarah climbed the peg ladder to peer into the loft.

"Tsch! Tsch!" she said, when she saw the corn husks and dirty bearskins

on which the boys had been sleeping. "Take them out and burn them, Tom."

"Burn them?" he protested.

"Yes, and burn the covers on the downstairs bed, too. I reckon I have

enough feather beds and blankets to go around. We're starting fresh in

this house. We'll soon have it looking like a different place."

Not since Nancy died had the cabin had such a thorough cleaning. Then

came the most remarkable part of that remarkable afternoon--the

unloading of the wagon. Sarah's pots and pans shone from much scouring.

Her wooden platters and dishes were spotless. And the furniture! She had

chairs with real backs, a table, and a big chest filled with clothes.

There was one bureau that had cost forty-five dollars. Abe ran his

finger over the shining dark wood. Sarah hung a small mirror above it

and he gasped when he looked at his reflection. This was the first

looking glass that he had ever seen.

Most remarkable of all were the feather beds. One was laid on the pole

bed, downstairs. Another was placed on a clean bearskin in the opposite

corner to provide a sleeping place for the girls. The third was carried

to the loft for the three boys. When Abe went to bed that night, he sank

down gratefully into the comfortable feathers. The homespun blanket that

covered him was soft and warm.

On either side, Dennis and Johnny were asleep. Abe lay between them,

wide awake, staring into the darkness. The new Mrs. Lincoln was good and

kind. He knew that. She had seemed pleased when Sally called her

"Mamma." Somehow he couldn't. There was still a lonesome place in his

heart for his own mother.

Something else was worrying him. Before going to bed, Sarah Lincoln had

looked at him and Sally out of her calm gray eyes. "Tomorrow I aim to

make you young ones look more human," she said. Abe wondered what she

meant.

He found out the next morning. Tom and Dennis left early to go hunting.

Abe went out to chop wood for the fireplace. When he came back, he met

the three girls going down the path. Sally was walking between her two

stepsisters, but what a different Sally! She wore a neat, pretty dress

that had belonged to Betsy. She had on Sarah's shawl. Her hair was

combed in two neat pigtails. Her face had a clean, scrubbed look. Her

eyes were sparkling. She was taking Betsy and Mathilda to call on one of

the neighbors.

"Good-by, Mamma," she called.

Sarah stood in the doorway, waving to the girls. Then she saw Abe, his

arms piled high with wood. "Come in," she said. "Sally has had her bath.

Now I've got a tub of good hot water and a gourd full of soap waiting

for you. Skedaddle out of those old clothes and throw them in the fire."

"I ain't got any others." Abe looked terrified.

"I don't aim to pluck your feathers without giving you some new ones."

Sarah laughed. "I sat up late last night, cutting down a pair of Mr.

Johnston's old pants. I got a shirt, too, laid out here on the bed."

Slowly Abe started taking off his shirt. He looked fearfully at the tub

of hot water.

"There's no call to be scared," said Sarah. "That tub won't bite. Now

I'm going down to the spring. By the time I get back, I want you to have

yourself scrubbed all over."

Abe stuck one toe into the water. He said, "Ouch!" and drew it out. He

then tried again, and put in his whole foot. He put in his other foot.

He sat down in the tub. By the time Sarah returned he was standing

before the fire, dressed in the cut-down trousers and shirt of the late

Mr. Johnston.

Sarah seemed pleased. "You look like a different boy," she said. "Those

trousers are a mite too big, but you'll soon grow into them."

Abe was surprised how good it felt to be clean again. "Thank you, ma'am.

Now I'd better get in some more wood."

"We have plenty of wood," said Sarah. "You see that stool? You sit down

and let me get at your hair. It looks like a heap of underbrush."

Abe watched anxiously when she opened the top drawer of the bureau and

took out a haw comb and a pair of scissors. I'll stand for it this time,

he thought, because she's been so good to us. But if she pulls too

hard--

Mrs. Lincoln _did_ pull. But when Abe said "Ouch!" she patted his

shoulder and waited a moment. He closed his eyes and screwed up his

face, but he said nothing more. Perhaps she couldn't help pulling, he

decided. Lock after lock she snipped off. He began to wonder if he was

going to have any hair left by the time she got through.

"I've been watching you, Abe. You're a right smart boy," she said. "Had

much schooling?"

"I've just been to school by littles."

"Have you a mind to go again?"

"There ain't any school since Master Crawford left. Anyhow, Pappy

doesn't set much store by eddication."

[Illustration]

"What do you mean, Abe?"

"He says I know how to read and write and cipher and that's enough for

anyone."

"You can read?" she asked.

"Yes'm, but I haven't any books."

"You can read and you haven't any books. I have books and I can't read."

Abe looked at her, amazed. "You have _books_?"

Sarah nodded, but said nothing more until she had finished cutting his

hair. Then she led him over to the bureau.

"Now see if you don't like yourself better without that brush heap on

top of your head," she asked him.

A boy with short neat hair gazed back at Abe from the mirror.

"I still ain't the prettiest boy in Pigeon Creek," he drawled, "but

there ain't quite so much left to be ugly. I'm right glad, ma'am, you

cleared away the brush heap."

Was he joking? He looked so solemn that Sarah could not be sure. Then he

grinned. It was the first time that she had seen him smile.

"You're a caution, Abe," she said. "Now sit yourself down over there at

the table, and I'll show you my books."

She opened the top drawer of the bureau and took out four worn little

volumes. Although she could not read, she knew the titles: "Here they

are: _Robinson Crusoe_, _Pilgrim's Progress_, _Sinbad the Sailor_, and

_Aesop's Fables_."

"Oh, ma'am, this book by Mr. Aesop is one the schoolmaster had. The

stories are all about some smart talking animals."

He seemed to have forgotten her, as he bent his neat shorn head down

over the pages. He chuckled when he read something that amused him.

Sarah watched him curiously. He was not like her John. He was not like

any boy that she had ever known. But the hungry look in his eyes went

straight to her heart.

[Illustration]

He looked up at her shyly. "Ma'am," he said, "will you let me read these

books sometimes?"

"Why, Abe, you can read them any time you like. I'm giving them to you

to keep."

"Oh, _Mamma_!" The name slipped out as though he were used to saying it.

He had a feeling that Nancy, his own mother, had never gone away.

"You're my boy, now," Sarah told him, "and I aim to help you all I can.

The next time a school keeps in these parts, I'm going to ask your pappy

to let you and the other children go."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Abe. "I mean--thank you, Mamma."

[Illustration]

Many changes were taking place in the Lincoln cabin. Sarah persuaded Tom

to cut two holes in the walls for windows, and she covered them with

greased paper to let in the light. He made a wooden door that could be

shut against the cold winter winds. Abe and Dennis gave the walls and

low ceiling a coat of whitewash, and Sarah spread her bright rag rugs on

the new wooden floor.

"Aunt Sairy," Dennis told her, "you're some punkins. One just naturally

has to be somebody when you're around."

Abe smiled up at her shyly. "It is sort of like the magic in that story

of Sinbad you gave me."

The other children were asleep. Abe sprawled on the floor, making marks

on a wooden shovel with a pointed stick. Tom, seated in one of his

wife's chairs, was dozing on one side of the fireplace.

Sarah put down her knitting and looked around the cabin. "The place

does look right cozy," she replied. "What is that you're doing, Abe?"

"Working my sums."

Tom opened his eyes. "You know how to figure enough already. Put that

shovel up and go to bed."

Abe took a knife and scraped the figures from the wooden shovel. He

placed it against one side of the fireplace. "Good night, Mamma," he

said.

"Good night, Abe."

Sarah's eyes were troubled. She waited until Dennis had joined Abe in

the loft, then turned to her husband. "I've been meaning to tell you,

Tom, what a good pa you've been to my young ones."

She saw that he was pleased. "I've tried to be a good mother to Abe and

Sally, too," she went on.

"You have been, Sairy. They took to you right off."

"I'm right glad, but there's something else I want to talk to you about,

Tom." He was nodding again in his chair, and she paused to make sure

that he was listening. "Abe's a smart boy. I told him the next time a

school keeps in these parts, I'd ask you to let him and the other

children go."

"Humph!" Tom grunted. "There ain't any school for him to go to. Anyway,

he wastes enough time as 'tis. He's always got his nose buried in those

books you brought."

"That bothers me, too. I saw you cuff him the other day because he was

reading."

"I had to, Sairy. I told him to come out and chop some wood, but he up

and laughed in my face."

"He wasn't laughing at you, Tom. He was laughing at Sinbad."

"Who in tarnation is Sinbad?"

"A fellow in one of his books. Abe said that Sinbad sailed his flatboat

up to a rock, and the rock was magnetized and pulled all the nails out

of his boat. Then Sinbad fell into the water."

"That's what I mean," Tom exploded. "Dennis told him that book was most

likely lies, but Abe keeps on reading it. Where is all this book

learning going to get him? More'n I ever had."

"Maybe the Lord meant for young ones to be smarter than their parents,"

said Sarah, "or the world might never get any better."

Tom shook his head in dismay. "Women and their fool notions! If I don't

watch out, you'll be spoiling the boy more'n his own mammy did."

Sarah's cheeks were red as she bent over her knitting. Tom was right

about one thing. There was no school for Abe to go to. But some day

there would be. Every few weeks another clearing was made in the forest,

and the neighbors gathered for a "house raising" to help put up a cabin.

Then smoke would rise from a new chimney, and another new home would be

started in the wilderness.

With so many new settlers, there was usually plenty of work for Abe.

Whenever Tom did not need him at home, he hired out at twenty-five cents

a day. He gave this money to his father. That was the law, Tom said. Not

until Abe was twenty-one would he be allowed to keep his wages for

himself. As a hired boy, he plowed corn, chopped wood, and did all kinds

of chores. He did not like farming, but he managed to have fun.

"Pa taught me to work," Abe told one farmer who had hired him, "but he

never taught me to love it."

The farmer scratched his head. He couldn't understand a boy who was

always reading, and if Abe wasn't reading he was telling jokes. The

farmer thought that Abe was lazy.

"Sometimes," the farmer said, "I get awful mad at you, Abe Lincoln. You

crack your jokes and spin your yarns, if you want to, while the men are

eating their dinner. But don't you keep them from working."

The other farm hands liked to gather around Abe when they stopped to eat

their noon meal. Sometimes he would stand on a tree stump and

"speechify." The men would become so interested that they would be late

getting back to the fields. Other times he would tell them stories that

he had read in books or that he had heard from some traveler who had

passed through Pigeon Creek. He nearly always had a funny story to tell.

[Illustration]

Yet there was "something peculiarsome about Abe," as Dennis Hanks once

said. He would be laughing one minute; the next minute he would look

solemn and sad. He would walk along the narrow forest trails, a faraway

look in his eyes. Someone would say "Howdy, Abe." Then he would grin and

start "cracking jokes" again.

Although he worked such long hours, Abe still found time to read. He sat

up late and got up early in the morning, and Sarah made the children

keep quiet when he wanted to study. Sometimes he took a book to work

with him. Instead of talking to the other farm hands at noon, he'd go

off by himself and read a few pages while he ate his dinner. People for

miles around loaned him books. Sometimes he walked fifteen miles to

Rockport, the county seat, to borrow books from John Pitcher, the town

lawyer.

"Everything I want to know is in books," he told Dennis. "My best friend

is a man who can give me a book I ain't read."

Late one afternoon, about two years after Sarah had arrived, Abe came

home with a new book under his arm. Tom and Dennis had joined several of

their neighbors in a big bear hunt and planned to be gone for several

days. Abe planned to read--and read--and read.

"What do you think, Mamma?" he asked. "I have a chance to read the

Declaration of Independence."

Sarah smiled into his eager eyes. "Now isn't that nice?"

He showed her the book. It belonged to David Turnham, the constable. Mr.

Turnham had said that Abe might borrow it for several days, if he

promised to be careful.

"What is it about?" Sarah asked.

"It has the laws of Indiana in it, and it tells how the government of

our country was started." Abe's voice took on a new tone of excitement.

"It has the Declaration of Independence in it and the Constitution,

too."

He pulled a stool up to the fire and began to read. There was no sound

in the little cabin except the steady click-click of Sarah's knitting

needles. She glanced at him now and then. This tall, awkward boy had

become very dear to her. As dear as her own children, perhaps even

dearer, but he was harder to understand. No matter how much he learned,

he wanted to learn more. He was always hungry, hungry for knowledge--not

hungry for bacon and cornbread the way Johnny was. The idea made her

chuckle.

Abe did not hear. He laid the book on his knee and stared into the

flames. His lips were moving, although he made no sound.

"What are you saying to yourself?" Sarah asked. "You look so far away."

"Why, Mamma." Abe looked up with a start. "I was just recollecting some

of the words out of the Declaration of Independence. It says all men are

created equal."

"You don't mean to tell me!" Sarah was pleased because Abe was.

"I'm going to learn as much of the Declaration as I can by heart, before

I take the book back," he said. "That way I can always keep the words."

"I declare," said Sarah, "you grow new ideas inside your head as fast as

you add inches on top of it."

[Illustration]

Abe went right on adding inches. By the time he was fourteen he was as

tall as his father. Sally was working as a hired girl that summer for

Mr. and Mrs. Josiah Crawford. Abe worked for them off and on. One

afternoon he finished his chores early, and Mrs. Crawford sent him home.

Abe was glad. Josiah had lent him a new book--a life of George

Washington--and he wanted to start reading it.

When he reached the Lincoln cabin, he found Betsy and Mathilda waiting

outside for their mother. She stood before the mirror in the cabin

putting on her sunbonnet.

"Your pa and Dennis have gone squirrel hunting," she said, as she tied

the strings in a neat bow beneath her chin. "The gals and I are going to

visit a new neighbor. Will you keep an eye on Johnny and put some

'taters on to boil for supper?"

"Oh, Ma, not potatoes again?"

"They will be right tasty with a mess of squirrel. Before you put the

'taters on--"

Abe patted the book inside his shirt front. "I can read?" he asked.

"You can, after you go down to the horse trough and wash your head."

"Wash my head? How come?" Abe wailed.

"Take a look at that ceiling, and you'll know how come. See that dark

spot? Your head made that. You're getting so tall you bump into the

ceiling every time you climb into the loft."

Abe rolled his eyes upward. "If some of that learning I've got cooped up

in my head starts leaking out, how can I help it?"

Sarah refused to be put off by any of his foolishness. "When you track

dirt into the house, I can wash the floor," she said. "But I can't get

to the ceiling so easy. It needs a new coat of whitewash, but there's no

use in doing it if your head ain't clean."

"All right," said Abe meekly.

"Take a gourdful of soap with you," said Sarah. "And mind you, no

reading until you finish washing your hair."

He grumbled under his breath as he walked down to the horse trough. With

a new book waiting to be read, washing his hair seemed a waste of time.

But if that was what Sarah wanted, he would do it. He lathered his head

with soap and ducked it into the water. Some of the soap got into his

eyes and he began to sputter. He heard a giggle.

"Hey, Johnny, is that you?" he said. "Get a bucket of water--quick!"

Johnny, the eight-year-old stepbrother, was glad to oblige. He poured

bucket after bucket of water over Abe's head. Finally all of the soap was

rinsed out of his hair. Abe took the tail of his shirt and wiped the soap

out of his eyes. Both boys were covered with water. The ground around the

horse trough was like a muddy little swamp. Johnny was delighted. He liked

to feel the mud squish up between his toes.

[Illustration]

"Look at me, Abe," he shouted. "Ain't we having fun?"

Abe took his young stepbrother by the hand. His eyes were twinkling.

"I've thought of something else that's fun. Come on, we're going to play

a joke on Mamma."

When Sarah returned to the cabin late that afternoon, she noticed that

Abe's hair was still damp. He was very quiet as he stood by the

fireplace and swung the big kettle outward. He dipped out the potatoes

with an iron spoon. Tom and Dennis came in, both somewhat grumpy. They

had not brought back a single squirrel.

Only Johnny seemed in good spirits. He whispered in Mathilda's ear. They

both began to giggle. By the time the family had gathered around the

table, Betsy and Dennis had been let in on the secret, whatever it was.

They were red in the face from trying not to laugh.

"Quiet!" said Tom. "Quiet, while I say the blessing."

"We thank thee. Lord--" he began.

Tom usually gave thanks for each kind of food on the table. But today

there was only a dish of dried-up potatoes. "We thank Thee, Lord," he

went on, "for all these blessings."

"Mighty poor blessings," said Abe.

The girls giggled again. Dennis threw back his head and roared. Johnny

was laughing so hard that he fell off his stool. He lay on the floor,

rolling and shrieking.

"I wish you young ones would stop carrying on," said Sarah, "and tell me

what you're carrying on about."

[Illustration]

"Oh, Mamma, can't you see?" said Betsy. "Look up."

Sarah gasped. Marching across the cabin ceiling were the muddy marks of

two bare feet.

"Don't they look like Johnny's feet?" Mathilda asked.

"Johnny Johnston, you come right here," said Sarah sternly.

Johnny picked himself up from the rag rug before the fireplace. He went

over and stood before his mother. His blue eyes danced. This was one

scolding that he looked forward to.

"Now tell me the truth. What do you mean by--"

Sarah paused. She could hardly scold her son for walking on the ceiling.

Johnny had been told exactly what to say. "I got my feet all muddy down

at the horse trough," he explained. "Then I walked on the ceiling."

"You walked on the ceiling? Johnny Johnston, you know it's wicked to

lie."

"I'm not lying. Those are my footprints."

Sarah looked again. The footprints were too small to belong to anyone

but Johnny. She looked at Abe. He seemed to have taken a sudden liking

for boiled potatoes and kept his eyes on his plate.

"Abe Lincoln, is this some of your tomfoolery?"

"I--I reckon so."

"But how--"

"It was easy," Johnny interrupted. "I held my legs stiff and Abe held me

upside down, and I walked."

Abe stood up, pushing back his stool. He glanced toward the door.

Sarah was not often angry. When she was, she reminded her children of a

mother hen ruffling its feathers. "Well, Abe, have you got anything to

say for yourself?"

Abe shook his head. Suddenly his joke did not seem quite so funny.

"I declare!" said Sarah. "A big boy like you! You ought to be spanked."

The children looked at tall, lanky Abe towering over their mother. They

burst out laughing again. "Mamma's going to spank Abe!" they chanted.

"Mamma's going to spank Abe."

Dennis brought both hands down on the table with a loud whack. "That's a

good one, that is," he roared.