Part 25 (1/2)

”What does that read, elder?--I can't tell. I ain't got no larnin' to spare. What does it read, elder?”

Jasper scanned the writing on the surface of the back of the shovel. The writing was clear and plain. Mrs. Lincoln came and looked over his shoulder.

”Writ it himself, likely as not,” said she. ”Abe writes poetry; he can't help it sometimes--it's a gift. Read it, elder.”

Jasper read slowly:

”'Time! what an empty vapor 'tis!

And days, how swift they are!

Swift as an arrow speed our lives, Swift as the shooting star.

The present moment--'”

”He didn't finish it, did he, elder? I think it is real pooty--don't you?”

Mrs. Lincoln turned her broad, earnest face toward the Tunker.

”Real pooty, ain't it?”

”Yes,” said Jasper. ”He'll be likely to do some great work in life, and leave it unfinished. It comes to me so.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: A QUEER PLACE TO WRITE POETRY.]

”Don't say so, elder. His father don't praise him much, but he's real good to me, and I hope no evil will ever happen to him. I set lots of store by Abe. I don't know any difference between him and my own son.

His poor, dead mother, that lies out there all alone under the trees, knows that I have done by him as if he were my own. You know, the guardian angels of children see the face of the Father, and I kind o'

think that she is his guardian; and if she is, now, I hain't anything to reflect upon.”

”Only you're spilin' him--that's all,” said Mr. Lincoln. ”Some women are so good that they are not good for anything, and between me and Sarah and his poor, dead mother, Abraham has never had the discipline that he ought to have had. But Andrew Crawford, the schoolmaster, and Josiah Crawford, the farmer, did their duty by him. Come, elder, let us go up to Jones's store, and talk politics a while. Jones, he's a Jackson man.

He sets great store by Abe, and thinks, like you and Sarah, that the boy will make somethin' some day. Well, I hope he will--can't tell.”

Mr. Jones's store was the popular resort of Gentryville. Says one of the old pioneers, Dougherty: ”Lincoln drove a team, and sold goods for Jones. Jones told me that Lincoln read all of his books, and I remember the History of the United States as one. Jones afterward said to me that Lincoln would make a great man one of these days--had said so long before to other people, and so as far back as 1828 and 1829.”

The store was full of men and boys when Thomas Lincoln and Jasper and Waubeno arrived. Dennis Hanks was there, and the Grigsbys. Josiah Crawford, who had made Abraham pull fodder for three days for allowing a book that he had lent him to get wet one rainy night, was seated on a barrel. His nose was very long, and he had a high forehead, and wide look across the forehead. He looked very wise and thought himself a Solomon.

The men and boys all seemed to be glad to see the Tunker, and they greeted Waubeno kindly, though curiously, and plied him with civil questions about Black Hawk.

There was to be a debate that evening, and Mr. Jones called the men to order, and each one mounted a barrel and lit his pipe--or all except Abraham and Waubeno, who did not smoke, but who stood near each other, almost side by side.

”Abraham,” said Thomas Lincoln, ”you'll have to argue the p'int for the Indian well to-night, or--there he is!”--pointing to Waubeno--”he'll answer ye.”

The debate went slowly at first, then grew exciting. When Abraham Lincoln's turn came to speak, all the store grew still. The subject of the debate was, as Thomas Lincoln had said: ”Which has the greater cause for complaint, the Indian or the negro?”

Abraham Lincoln claimed the Indian was more wronged than the negro, and his homely face glowed as with a strange fire as he pictured the red man's wrongs. He towered above the men like a giant, and moved his arms as though they possessed some invisible power.

Waubeno fixed his eyes on him, and felt the force and thrust of his every word.

”If I were a negro,” said Lincoln, ”I would hope that some redeemer and deliverer would arise, like Moses of old. But if I were an Indian, what would I have to hope for, if I fell under the avarice of the white man?

Let the past answer that.”