Front matter (continued 2)

The hearth was of dirt with a hole in the middle made by much sweeping. There was a puncheon table with forked sticks for legs, and wooden trenchers for plates. Sharp pieces of cane were used for forks; there was one knife without a handle, and one tin cup for the use of the entire family. In one corner was a pallet of leaves on a post frame with a thin quilt over it.

When Abe Lincoln entered the one room he found the mother bending over the hearth, and a small girl, with a black eye, trying to quiet a dirty baby which kicked on the post bed.

At a first glance Lincoln saw that the woman was in trouble, and, while she thanked him in a crude way for the return of the pennies and took them eagerly, her mind was thus only partially diverted from the trouble.

Hungry for pity, and led to believe she might get it from this tall youth who had come so far to return her change, the woman poured out her tale of woe.

Her pig was gone—her only pig—the pig which the children had divided food with that they might have a bit of meat for the winter. Her husband would not fix the pen and the pig had escaped and gone some days before. The bitter loss was too much for the poor woman, and she broke down and wept.

Moved with pity, Abe Lincoln asked what kind of a pig it was.

"Black, with a white spot on its left shank, and a white eye, and its ear was fresh cut with two slits and a cross mark—like this," and bending over the hearth she made some marks in the ashes which Lincoln looked at carefully. "I suppose some wolf or cat smelled the blood, cause nobody would steal a pig in these parts, would they?" and there was appeal in her voice as she asked the question.

Further discussion about the pig was cut off by a screech from the child, whose face suddenly took on an expression of great fear, while her eyes seemed fixed in horror on something she saw coming toward the house.

Abe Lincoln glanced out.

"It's her Pap coming," the woman explained. "He beat her somethin' fearful yesterday cause she got in the mud. And he told her he'd throw her in up to her neck to-day if she got in the mud, and let her stick there till the buzzards eat 'er up. And how is the poor child to help it when her Pap has brought her here where there ain't nothing but mud to fall in?" Then, turning to the child, she said: "'Tain't no use to have fits. Nobody but God can keep him from gittin' ye."

"Nobody but God, eh?" Abe Lincoln said. "We'll see."

The man came staggering toward the house, cursing and growling, his drunken wrath seeming to centre itself on the child whose face was transfixed with terror.

The child screamed just as he was about to enter the house to make good his threats. Then there suddenly pounced upon him, from just inside, something that caught him in a grip like that of a vise, and pulled him back outside. And then this something, which was a very tall youth, began shaking him and slowly making his way, as he did so, toward the creek.

As a result of the none too gentle shaking, the liquid matter the drunkard had imbibed began to return to the world of visible things until what seemed an endless amount had been emptied along the way they were taking. When the burden of liquor had been lightened, the drunkard, now chattering for pity, was ducked in the stream until his dripping chin was washed clean, and his thick tongue limbered up.

He was then marched back to the cabin door from which the wife, and child with a black eye, looked out in speechless wonder.

"Here you are now," said the tall man. "My name is Abe Lincoln. I keep store in town. I can get here in twenty minutes any time I'm needed to break up this child-beatin'—understand?" and he was off.

It was that same night Abe Lincoln dropped down to Clary's Grove, where he was now always welcome. When he arrived he found a feast in course of preparation. A pig was roasting in the fire and the savory odor permeated the air as different ones of the gang poked the fire, basted the roast, and otherwise prepared for the occasion.

"Just in time, my son, Abry Linkhorn," said Ole Bar.

"Where'd you get that pig?" Lincoln inquired.

"It lit in a tree and we clubbed it out and picked it. 'Tain't none too fat, but it'll do."

"Let me look at its ears," Lincoln said. "Two slits and a cross" he observed. Then he told the story of Snoutful Kelly's wife and her great grief at the loss of the pig.

There was a moment of impressive silence. Then one of the gang said: "Clary's Grove has done some things that hain't been written in no book, but they don't steal from no weepin' wimmin, and beat up hungry children. As good a pig must be put back in that pen as was ever caught in the woods by the wolves and cats."

This speech expressed the sentiment of the company, and a game was played to see who would replace the pig. When this had been decided they returned to their feast with consciences apparently as clear as those of children.

It was the second day following the feast by the Clary Grove Boys, that Ann Rutledge missed one of her pigs. Ann was not only a famous needle woman, a spinner, and a cook, but she had good luck raising pigs and chickens, and her father gave her a pig or two in each litter, which were to be her own to help in getting her education.

Now her pig was gone—a black one with a white spot on its flank.

Mounted on one of John Rutledge's good horses, Ann set out to search the woods for her pig.

She had gotten some distance without finding any trace of it, when she heard the cry of a child. Following the direction from which the sound came, she soon discovered a forlorn little specimen of a girl, with a black and purple eye, who was looking about in different directions as if not knowing which way to go, and was crying.

"What's the matter?" asked Ann Rutledge, "are you lost?"

"Yes," the child answered.

"Who are you—and where do you live?"

"I'm Katy Kelly, and I live at Muddy Point. Our pig is lost again," she sobbed. "We got it home once, but the pen broke, and now it's gone again."

"I'm looking for a pig, too," Ann said. "Get up on my horse, and we'll look a little and then I'll take you home."

The child climbed on, and the search continued. But the child no longer had eyes for anything but Ann Rutledge.

"How did you hurt your eye?" Ann asked kindly.

"Pap, he did it. He bunged me with his fist. He said he'd git me again the same way, and stick me in the mud till the buzzards picked my eyes out. I was scared to death. It's horrible to get bunged and beat. I begged Maw to keep Pap from beatin' me again, but he beats her, too, and she said nobody but God could keep him from beatin' me up. Just as he was about to git me, here comes God with the longest legs on earth, and he reached out his long arms an' got Pap and shook all the red eye out of him he's poured in fer a year. Then he ducked him until he got sobered up. Mam says Pap won't beat me no more, she'll bet on it, 'cause God—He can git anywhere on them legs, in twenty minutes."

This story was told between snubs and sobs, and the dirty dress sleeve was called into use between sentences to dry the tearful eyes and dripping nose.

Ann Rutledge was interested.

"So God came to help you?"

"Yep—his name is Abe Lincoln—he told Pap."

"Abe Lincoln!" Ann exclaimed. Then she rode a long way without speaking. She was thinking. The name brought the picture of a strong, elemental man, seemingly older than his years, a man who had said he was going to play fair with God, a man whom Nance Cameron had pronounced the homeliest creature that God ever put breath in.

"There's home," the child presently said, "and, there's the pig."

Ann looked. A small black pig with a white spot on its flank. She knew the pig.

But when she dismounted to examine the pig she found its ear cut with two slits and a cross.

"We found it in the pen. At first I couldn't believe it," Mrs. Kelly exclaimed. "It looked a bit fatter than mine, but it's ear was fresh marked; I cut it myself. And I thanked God it had come back."

"You thanked God," Ann observed as if to herself.

"Yes—for it's our only winter meat. And when it got out again I was sick over it—and likely it will get away some more, for Kelly never fixed a pen that would hold, in his life."

"I'll help you fix the pen," Ann said, and she did, meantime wondering about the pig, for she would have sworn it was her own.

CHAPTER XI

PETER CARTWRIGHT ARRIVES

It was on a September day that the famous Peter Cartwright jogged into New Salem on a stiff-legged pony, and drew up before Rutledge Inn.

His visit had been long expected and great preparations had been made for the camp-meeting which was to be held in the Springfield district in a few days.

No announcement had been made of the time Peter Cartwright would arrive, yet in that mysterious way that news spreads over a small town, even while he was yet removing the saddle bags from his tired pony, sightseers had congregated on the opposite side of the street, and before sun-down everybody in town knew that the great preacher was stopping for the night at Rutledge Inn.

Abe Lincoln had been invited to the Inn, with the select few who often made the little party, to meet Rev. Peter Cartwright. They met a rather small, wiry man with bright fox-like eyes, and hair inclined to be curly, which stood out in every direction on a round head.

He talked freely, criticizing in no unmeasured terms such preachers as preach not against slavery, dram drinking, dancing, or the putting on of costly apparel and jewelry. Then with a twinkle in his small, bright eye, he said that his risibilities were often hard to keep down owing to some things that happened as he traveled his circuit, and he told them an incident:

"I rode one day into Springfield to transact a little business. My horse had at one time been an excellent pony, but now had the stiff complaint. I stopped for a few moments into a store to purchase a few articles, and I saw in the store a young lady in company with two young men; we were perfect strangers; they soon passed out and rode off. After transacting my business I left the store, mounted my stiff pony, and set out for home. After riding some distance, I saw just ahead of me a two-horse wagon, with the cover rolled up. It was warm weather, and I saw in the wagon those two young men and the young lady that I had seen in the store. As I drew near them they began to sing one of our camp-meeting songs, and they appeared to sing with great animation. Presently the young lady began to shout, and said 'Glory to God! Glory to God!' The driver cried out 'Amen, Glory to God!'

"My first impressions were that they had been across the Sangamon River to a camp-meeting that I knew was in progress there, and had obtained religion, and were happy. As I drew a little nearer, the young lady began to sing and shout again. The young man who was not driving fell down and cried aloud for mercy; the other two shouting at the top of their voices, cried out, 'Glory to God! another sinner's down.' Then they began to exhort the young man that was down, saying, 'Pray on, brother; pray on, brother; you will soon get religion'; and up jumped the young man that was down, shouting aloud, saying, 'God has blessed my soul. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Glory to God!'

"Thinking all was right, I felt like riding up and joining in the songs of triumph and shouts of joy that rose from these three happy persons; but, as I neared the wagon, I saw them cast glances at each other and at me, and I suspected then that they were making a mock of religious things, and, knowing me to be a preacher, wished to fool me. I stopped my horse and fell back, and rode slowly, thinking they would ride on, and so not annoy me any more; but when I checked my horse and went slow, they slackened their pace and went slow too, and the driver changed places with the other young man; then they began again to sing and shout at a furious rate and down fell the first driver, and up went a new shout of 'Glory to God! another sinner's down. Pray on, brother; pray on, brother; the Lord will bless you.' Presently up sprang the driver, saying, 'Glory to God! He has blessed me.' And both the others shouted and said, 'Another sinner's converted, another sinner's converted. Hallelujah! Glory to God!' A rush of indignant feeling came all over me, and I felt as if I wanted to ride up and horsewhip both of these rowdies, and if a lady had not been present I might have done so, but, as it was, I did not. It was a vexatious encounter; if my horse had been fleet, as in former days, I could have rode right off and left them in their glory, but he was stiff, and when I would fall back and go slow, they would check up; and when I would spur my stiff pony and try to get ahead of them they would crack the whip and keep ahead of me; and thus they tormented me until my patience was entirely exhausted. They kept up a continual roar of 'Another sinner's down! Another soul's converted! Glory to God! Pray on, brother! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Glory to God!' and I felt it was more than any good minister ought to bear.

"I cannot describe my feelings at this time. It seemed that I was delivered over to be tormented by the devil and his imps. Just at this moment I thought of a terrible mud-hole about a quarter of a mile ahead. It was a long one and very deep mud, and many teams had stuck in it, and had to be pried out. Near the center of this mud-hole there was a place of mud deeper than anywhere else. On the right stood a stump about two feet high; all the wagons had to be driven close to this stump so as to avoid a deep rut on the left, where many wagons had stuck. I knew where there was a small bridle way that wound round through the brush to avoid the mud, and the thought occurred to me that, when we came up to this muddy place, I would take the bridle way, and put my horse at the top of his speed and by so doing get away from these miserable tormentors, as I knew they could not drive fast through this long plot of mud. When we drove near to the commencement of the mud I took the bridle path, and put spurs and whip to my horse. Perceiving that I was rapidly leaving them in the rear, their driver cracked his whip, and put his horses at almost full speed, and such was their anxiety to keep up with me to carry out their sport that, when they came to this bad place, they never saw the stump on the right. The fore wheel of the wagon struck centrally on the stump, and as the wheel mounted the stump over went the wagon. Fearing it would turn entirely over and catch them under, the two young men took a leap into the mud, and when they lighted they sunk up to their middle. The young lady was dressed in white, and as the wagon went over, she sprang as far as she could, and lighted on all fours; her hands sunk into the mud up to her armpits, her mouth and the whole of her face immersed in the muddy water, and she certainly would have strangled if the young man had not relieved her. I rode up to the edge of the mud, stopped my horse, reared in my stirrups and shouted at the top of my voice:

"'Glory to God! Glory to God! Hallelujah! another sinner's down! Glory to God! Hallelujah! Glory! Hallelujah!'

"If ever youngsters felt mean those did; and well they might, for they had carried on all this sport to make light of religion, and to insult a minister, a total stranger to them. But they contemned religion, and hated Methodists, especially Methodist preachers.

"When I became tired of shouting over them, I said to them: 'Now you poor, dirty, mean sinners, take this as a just judgment of God upon you for your meanness, and repent of your dreadful wickedness; and let this be the last time that you attempt to insult a preacher; for if you repeat your abominable sport and persecutions, the next time God will serve you worse, and the devil will get you.'

"They felt so badly that they never uttered one word of reply. Now I was very glad that I did not horsewhip them, as I felt like doing; but that God had avenged His own cause, and defended His own honor without my doing it with carnal weapons. Later, at one of my prosperous camp-meetings, I had the great pleasure to see all three of these young people converted to God, and I took them into the Methodist Church."[1]

Cartwright's mission was not, however, story-telling, as was soon made evident. "Time is bearing on us," he said, "toward the Judgment. Are we prepared? This is the question—it is the one great question. Brethren and sisters, is every soul here prepared to meet his God? Let me see." There was a general indication that those present were. Abe Lincoln did not signify readiness. "We are going to pray," Cartwright said, "and you, my young friend," addressing him, "should humble yourself and call to God for deliverance from hell, for surely the enemy of man's soul is on his track, and damnation is the eternal punishment of the unsaved. Fear hell and flee to God."

"But I don't fear hell," Abe Lincoln said comfortably.

"Don't fear hell?" and there was both condemnation and surprise in Cartwright's tone as he repeated the words. "By such unbelief you question the existence of God."

"No—I don't question the existence of God, but I would if I believed eternal damnation. You see, parson, you and me don't measure God by the same yardstick."

"But to doubt hell is to doubt God. The same inspired book is the authority for both."

"For some, maybe, but not for others. Old Snoutful Kelly brought a child into the world without never once askin' her whether she wanted to come or not. Then he moved her to Muddy Point where there was nothin' but mud, without askin' her if she wanted to go. Then he told her to keep out of the mud, and when she couldn't he gave her a black eye. Having knocked her blind, he told her if she got into the mud again he'd 'souse her in a mud-hole to her ears and leave her there for the buzzards to pick her eyes out.' Now you say God brings us here children into this world without askin' nothin' about it, where there's devilment all about us, and we didn't put that here, either. Then you have God give us a black eye with this original sin you preach about, which makes us sin whether we want to or not, and when He gets us He promises hell fire and eternal damnation for gettin' into sin. This here don't sound like God to me. It sounds like Snoutful Kelly."

The silence that followed this statement was the kind that seems reduced to pound-weight. Cartwright stared at the presumptuous youth who had uttered such words. When he could speak, he said: "Coming from the lips of a worm of the dust, I should call such sacrilege—nothing short of blasphemy."

"Might be true if I counted myself among worms, but I don't—I may look like a worm, Brother Cartwright, or a pair of worms, or even four worms of the dust tied together, but I haven't none of that wormy feelin' you hint at, and I don't take stock in wormy religion. The Good Book is full of more upliftin' texts than the wormy ones. I'd forget about hell fire and worms of the dust for a while if I was a preacher."

"What would you preach, Abe?" Mentor Graham asked.

"Want to know, do you?"

"Yes—yes," the answer was given by both Rutledge and Doctor Allen.

Lincoln arose. For a moment he seemed slouchy, bent, and ill at ease. Then he straightened up and announced his text, "'Beloved, now are ye the sons of God, and it does not yet appear what we shall be.'"

As he spoke, a wonderful change came over him. His face lit up, his gestures grew natural and strong, his voice, thin-sounding at first, took on melody, his ill-fitting clothing was forgotten. He seemed for the moment lifted away from his surroundings, and those listening were lifted with him.

As he reached the end of his brief speech and declared, "'And every man that hath this hope in him, purifieth himself,'" he was measuring up to some far heights.

When he finished his short sermon he stood a few seconds. Then his shoulders drooped, the bright spark faded from his eye and gave place to the quiet, almost dull gray, and a quizzical smile softened his face as he said, in sitting down, "Let those who feel like worms be as decent as they can. Let those that feel themselves sons of God go forward toward better things. Isn't this the Scripture, Brother Cartwright?"

The small, bright eyes of the great exhorter were fastened on the face of the homely youth. Here evidently was a specimen whose like he had not seen.

"There be those," answered Cartwright, "who wrest the Scriptures to their own damnation. We were created sons of God to be sure. But we have been separated by the fall of Adam and eternally lost unless we return to the fold by the one way."

"That's just it, which is the right way? Doctor Allen here goes by the Predestinarian gate. Graham goes by the Hard-Shell gate. The New Lights have their way, the Free Wills theirs, the Dunkards and the Shakers have theirs, and you choose the shouting Methodist way. Which of them all is right?"

"Right—Why I am right, as I can prove by the Scriptures."

Lincoln laughed.

"Come to hear me preach and I can prove to you that I am right. You're tall and mighty in your own opinion, but I've seen the tall and lofty sons of Belial bite the dust. Come to hear me! I'll get the scales from your eyes and the stiffness out of your knees. Let us pray. To your knees, people," and with fervid honesty and all his consecrated lung power, the great exhorter called on all-mighty God to have mercy on the self-satisfied sinner in their midst.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER XII

THE RIGHTEOUS SHOUT

The meeting which Peter Cartwright was to hold had been heralded far and wide, and it was expected that several thousand people would attend. A great arbor had been erected at each of the four corners of which was a high wooden altar covered with earth and sod where pine torches burned to illuminate the darkness. A platform large enough to hold twenty preachers had been built, with an open space in front scattered with straw and lined with mourners' benches. Back from the arbor a circle of tents was placed; back of the tents, wagons, buggies, and carts of every description; and back of this rim of vehicles the horses, and sometimes oxen, were tethered.

The gathering together of so many people from far and near for a period of two or three weeks offered an opportunity for profit-making, and at a previous meeting whiskey as well as cider and tobacco had been sold in the forest beyond the camp-clearing, and wheels of chance had been operated, all of which had had a bad effect on the meeting.

The Clary Grove boys, after a report from Lincoln, had decided to "give Old Pete right of way," and planned neither mischief nor profit-making.

Not so, however, the Wolf Creek and Sand Town gangs; some among these had decided to use the occasion for money-making, and the day before the meeting was to open several barrels of whiskey were discovered in the brush down beyond the camp-arbor.

Cartwright immediately sent out word that no whiskey-selling would be allowed anywhere near the meeting-ground, and to the end of discovering whom he must fight, he disguised himself and was thus able to locate the gang of rowdies whose head-quarters he found a short distance down a little creek running by the camp ground. Close to the arbor was a steep bank, below which the water was quite deep. Into this pool, Peter Cartwright learned, a plan had been made to throw him. The rowdies were then to ride through the arbor on horses and, with screeches and yells like those of Indians break up the meeting.

With this information in hand, Peter Cartwright prepared himself, and, armed with a stout hickory club, he hid at the narrow passage through which the horsemen were to come, a pathway around the high bank just above the deep pool.

The singing service which preceded the sermon, led by the ten exhorters up at the arbor, was swelling into an inspiring volume when Cartwright, hiding in the gloom, heard the sound of horses, and the next moment the leader of the Wolf Creek gang appeared, making his smiling way, with his eye fixed on the arbor.

It was at this time the music of the pious song was pierced by an unearthly screech, ending with the words, "In the name of the Lord, GET BACK!" The horse was the first to heed the exhorter's summary order. Pitching his rider off perilously close to the brink of the creek, he snorted away into the forest.

"In the name of the Lord, get thee behind me, Satan!" Cartwright shouted again, this time into the ear of the Wolf Creek rowdy, and, with the words, he gave him such a resounding whack with his club as to knock him over the bank. The next moment the leader of the gang found himself kicking in the cold waters into which he had planned to throw Cartwright.

Several others of the gang now came up and made an effort to pass, but the yells of Cartwright had summoned the strong ones from the arbor and after a general mixing up between the sheep and the goats, the more valiant members of the Wolf Creek gang found themselves crawling out of the water at the foot of the bank.

When the gang had been dispersed, Peter Cartwright, puffing and blowing, returned to the arbor and sounded the great trumpet call to preaching. The disturbed audience gathered in quickly, the women seating themselves on one side and the men on the other.

Taking a timely text, the exhorter described with great power the conflict he had just been having with the devil, and when he had reached the climax of the great fight, and had described the way the devil went splashing into the pool, he sprang from his pulpit to a long bench across the altar, and, walking back and forth, shouted in a mighty voice:

Then my soul mounted higher In a chariot of fire, And the moon it was under my feet!

From a shout, the words grew into a song, improvised scriptural texts serving for the verses, and the chorus each time being the victorious statement that his soul had mounted up until the moon was under his feet. The audience soon caught the swing of the chorus and sent out great volumes of melody on the night air.

After this song, the old favorite, "Where, O where are the Hebrew children?" was started, and as the questions "Where, O where now is good Elijah?"; "Where, O where now is good old Daniel?"; "Where, O where now is my good mother?" were sung, with their answers, enthusiasm grew until the united answers rolled away in great sound-waves on the stillness of the black forest.

The situation was growing interesting. There was a suppressed feeling that something was going to happen.

Among the hundreds who stood about the sides were Abe Lincoln and Doctor Allen, who had taken the time to ride over in the hopes of seeing for themselves an exhibit of spiritual power known as the jerks. The perceptible and steady rise in excitement gave promise of almost any kind of unusual demonstration. Sinners had been called to the altar and many were falling in the dust, groaning and calling on God to save them from sin and its terrible punishment of hell.

Cartwright by now seemed to be singing, exhorting, preaching and praying all at the same time. The shouters had felt the power, and added to the singing and praying. Shrill cries of "Glory," and other ejaculations of unearthly joy were heard. Bonnets, caps, and combs were beginning to fly. Several of the sisters gave exhibitions of what were called running, jumping and barking exercises, and the men most interested in them were near at hand to catch them when they fell. Some who succumbed to this excess of joy, remained in a trance-like condition, however, and there were at one time many unconscious men and women lying prostrate in the straw at one place. Abe Lincoln and Dr. Allen looked on with much interest.

In the midst of the excitement, there came to the ears of Abe Lincoln, from the woman's side, somewhere across from him, a familiar note. His interest was at once centred in discovering the owner of the voice. After a very short time he saw Ann Rutledge. To-night she wore a dress half wool, half flax, a soft material, dyed with butternut until it was as yellow as her hair. She stood not far from one of the pine-torch fires, and in the reflection of the orange flames she made a picture worthy an artist's canvas.

With his eyes upon her face, shining as if touched by fire from some heavenly altar, Abe Lincoln suddenly became oblivious of the scenes about him, though proving of such unusual interest to Dr. Allen.

The song about the Hebrew children had given way to another and yet more emotional expression; a hand-shaking ditty which seemed little more than a monophonic impromptu to carry the line, "My brother, I wish you well; when my Lord calls, I trust you will be mentioned in the Promised Land." Before the many improvised verses of this chant, alike rousing and pathetic, had been sung twice, the climax joy of the safety of heavenly bliss, and the climax sorrow of the doom of eternal punishment had been reached, and it was evident to Dr. Allen that the strange physical expression was about to break out.

"Look!" he said to Abe Lincoln.

There was no response.

"Look!" he repeated.

Then he glanced at the man by his side. Abe Lincoln was looking, but not as Dr. Allen had indicated, and the expression on his face was one Dr. Allen had never seen there. For a moment his eyes rested on the uncouth and homely youth in surprise; then, as if hesitating to break some pleasant spell, he took him by the arm and said softly, "They're getting the jerks."

Abe Lincoln turned suddenly, and in something of an apologetic tone said, "It's Ann Rutledge singing. Look at her face. Doesn't she seem happy?"

"Ann Rutledge is always happy," Dr. Allen answered, "but look up in front."

"Hope she don't catch it," he said with a last glance at Ann as he turned his attention to a woman who had just shaken her apron off.

"Don't fear," Dr. Allen replied smiling. "Book learning and this sort of thing don't go together."

Dr. Allen and Abe Lincoln pushed nearer the front. According to Cartwright the jerks were useful to call attention to the power of God or the devil, whichever caused the peculiar demonstration. At any rate it affected them powerfully, and soon many about the altar were in different stages of the mysterious visitation of the supernatural. The heads of some jerked from side to side. Others bent back and forth. Sometimes the whole body jerked so violently it soon fell exhausted, and many bodies that fell into the straw lay for days before returning to consciousness.

As Dr. Allen and Abe Lincoln watched, they saw one man, who stood near a support, beat against it until the skin was scraped from his forehead. Dr. Allen felt moved with professional pity, but Abe Lincoln said, "He's getting religion, let him alone."

It was four o'clock in the morning, when those who had breath enough left sang, "Blest be the tie that binds," and repaired to their tents to rest until the trumpet should summon them to early morning prayers.

The next morning, as Abe Lincoln and Dr. Allen were crossing the arbor grounds, they saw Ann Rutledge and John McNeil laughing together as she fried eggs over an open fire. For a moment Lincoln felt the same sensation he experienced when once before he would have destroyed McNeil from the face of the earth.

Dr. Allen noted the momentary expression on his face and involuntarily compared it with what he had seen there the night before. He did not stop now to make any deductions, but he did not forget.

A little later Abe Lincoln met Ann and the Rev. Peter Cartwright. "We were talking about you," Ann said.

"I was wondering if the demonstration of Divine power at last night's meeting had not shaken the scales from your eyes, my sinner friend," was the exhorter's greeting.

"I suppose you call me a sinner because I do not believe in hell," Abe Lincoln said, smiling.

"No man can be religious and not fear hell."

"My sin then is in lack of fear, but I didn't make myself, and God just forgot to put it in. Am I to blame for that?"

"Don't be a scoffer," was Cartwright's advice. "You have a soul worth saving, young man. I shall pray for your never-dying soul. Perhaps others are praying for you, and the effectual fervent prayer of the righteous man availeth much."

"Thanks. I'll do as much for you if you ever get in need." Abe Lincoln answered, and bidding Ann and the preacher good-bye he went on his way.

John McNeil had come up just as Lincoln turned away. "Poor deluded sinner," Cartwright said kindly, looking after the tall, uncouth figure of Abe Lincoln. "How Satan does delude the soul of man, but he's worth praying for."

When John McNeil was alone with Ann Rutledge a few moments later, he said: "What did I tell you, Ann? I like Abe Lincoln all right, but I believe he is one of the worst sinners in this county. Why even those Wolf Creek rowdies that tried to break up the meeting believe in hell."

"Folks don't see things the same way," Ann asserted thoughtfully.

"No—I suppose you'd call Abe Lincoln a saint."

Ann made no answer. She seemed just then to hear a bruised and helpless child saying: "God come, and His name's Abe Lincoln."

CHAPTER XIII

A BUSY SINNER

While Peter Cartwright was laboring with every honest ounce of energy in his energetic soul and body to get his fellow-men safely aboard the old ship of Zion, Abe Lincoln was finding diversions from the regular routine of store work, in kind as different as whipping a bully and feeding a baby.

The bully happened into the store one afternoon while Abe Lincoln was waiting on a couple of ladies. He had not seen the stranger before, and greeted him with his usual salutation, "Howdy, partner—come in."

It was soon evident that the stranger was on no friendly mission.

Hardly was he inside the store than he began to talk abusively and to deliver himself of an abundance of profanity.

Leaning over the counter Lincoln called the man's attention to the fact that there were ladies present. The man continued his abuse and swearing. Again Abe Lincoln spoke to him, this time saying in positive terms that no swearing was allowed when ladies were in the store.

The reply to this remark was worse swearing.

Abe Lincoln said nothing more until the ladies were gone. Then he walked out from behind the counter and looked the stranger over.

"There's some sort of folks who can't listen to reason," he remarked. "Them kind has to have the daylights whaled out of them. What you need, partner, and what you are goin' to get is a spankin'."

This seemed to be what the stranger had desired. Pushing out his chest he stepped before Lincoln and told him to come on.

"Let's move out onto the face of the earth," Lincoln said. "I don't want to tear up the crockery and kick the molasses over."

When they were out at the side of the store and while the big bully was yet telling what he was going to do, he was seized suddenly, thrown to the ground and rolled over a couple of times. Then the tall man grabbed a handful of smart-weeds and rubbed it in the eyes of the profane stranger until he bellowed like a bull.

A crowd had collected to discover what the row was about, among them John McNeil.

When Lincoln had extracted a promise from his visitor that he would keep his swearing for men only, he let him up, and, taking him by the arm, led him back to the store-steps and seated him. He then brought water, bathed the eyes of the subdued stranger, and shook hands with him.

This incident furnished talk for New Salem for a couple of days, and John McNeil made a special trip to camp-meeting that night to tell Ann Rutledge about the fresh pugilistic outbreak of the tallest sinner in their midst.

In less than a fortnight after this incident, the stranger came again to the store with the request that Lincoln return with him at once to his home, as his wife was sick. He had recently moved out from Indiana and was not acquainted in the neighborhood, and he felt, some way, that Lincoln could help her.

To Honey Grove, a few miles distant, Lincoln went with him, and in a poor little cabin found a woman with a small baby. The woman was suffering from some sort of fever which had followed a severe chill.

"We didn't have nary remedy," she said with labored breath. "Back at Wild Cat Run in Indianny, I had some black dog ile rendered in the dark of the moon. Lots of folks was cured with it, but I couldn't git no black dog ile, nor blood of a black cat, nor even the blood of a black hen here. Do you know whar thar's a black cat or dog? I'm powerful hot—I can't hardly breathe, I'm so hot. Jim, he says if there's anybody in this neck of the woods can do it it's Abe Linkum. Kin you help me? Do you know where there's a black dog?"

As the tall youth stood over the bed hearing the plea his face was moved with pity.

"Yes, I'll help you. But I know something better than a black dog. We'll get Dr. Allen. He's the best doctor and got the biggest heart of any man in Illinois. He'll come and cure you."

Then Abe Lincoln wrote a few lines on a paper which he had in his pocket. "Hurry with bearer if possible, and bring Hannah Armstrong. We may save a mother's life. She has a little baby. A. Lincoln."

This he gave to the waiting husband, bidding him go back with all possible speed to New Salem.

At best it would be a couple of hours before the doctor could arrive, for it was several miles to town. Dr. Allen and Jack Armstrong both had good horses; Hannah was a fine rider, and Lincoln knew they would hasten if the doctor was not away on some other call.

When the husband had gone Abe Lincoln found himself alone in a small clearing circled about by miles of woods. The short, heavy breathing of the woman broke the stillness of the warm fall afternoon. He turned to the bed and looked down at the sufferer. Her face was saffron yellow, brightened to copper on her cheeks by flush of fever. Her eyes shone like glass. Her features were pinched, and her mouth drawn.

The young man by the bedside knew that unless help speedily came death was not far. Bending over her, he drew his long, strong fingers across her burning forehead.

"How good that feels!" she said, half closing her eyes. "You got fingers soft as a baby's."

He brought some water, and not being able to find a cloth, used his hand, making it cool and brushing her face very gently.

For a few moments she seemed easier, murmuring her thanks. "Your maw," she said, opening her eyes, "how she must love you."

"I have no mother," he said huskily "—not in this world."

"Your woman, then," she said, breathing the words out with labor "—every man has his woman."

He made no answer.

Under the touch of his cool hand she seemed for a time to grow quiet. But the fever was burning higher in her veins, and soon she began to rock her head and utter incoherent words.

Then she opened her eyes again. "I'm skeered," she said. "I'm awful skeered. I hain't done nobody no harm—but I ain't never been religious."

"Don't be afraid," he said huskily. "What is there to fear?"

"Hell—hell," she moaned, "I've heerd it preached."

Abe Lincoln started to say something reassuring, but again her mind was wandering. When she spoke now, it was of the baby lying on the back of the bed. After opening her eyes and steadying them, she half moaned, "He's hungry, the fever's dried me up—can you feed the baby? There's milk—there's milk——"

She did not finish the sentence. It seemed hard for her to speak.

"I'll find the milk and feed the baby. Don't worry," and he brushed her hot arms and hands and forehead with his big, wet hands.

Again she sank back into that restless drowsiness broken by moans and incoherent mutterings. Sometimes there was a sharp outcry, and always the labored breathing, growing ever faster and faster.

Abe Lincoln went to the door and looked anxiously up at the sun, and from the sun, down the roadway.

When he returned to the bed the woman wanted to speak again. She opened her eyes. At first there was only a glassy stare, but with an effort she gathered her vision and, fixing her eyes on the homely face by her side, she said with words that seemed beaten out by some raging inward force, "Abe Linkum, kin you pray?"

"Yes," he answered without hesitation, "what's prayer but callin' on God when there ain't no one else can help?—yes."

"Pray," she pleaded—"kneel down and pray for me—I'm—burnin' up."

The young man knelt beside the bed. The woman reached out and clutched him. He took her burning hand in his. By its pressure he knew that she was hearing what he said, as in a few simple words he brought to the attention of the Father the needs of a helpless and suffering child.

When he arose, the expression in the shining eyes told him the woman was still conscious.

A moment she looked into his face. Then she said: "Tain't nothin' to be skeered of—is ther'—I ain't skeered no more—God, He won't let them git me and carry me to hell—God—God——" then the intelligent light passed and the fitful fire of consuming fever took its place.

The end was at hand. Anxiously Abe Lincoln looked up the roadway, praying in his heart for a sight of Dr. Allen. The woman was raving wildly, and before another ten minutes had gone, life had left her body.

Abe Lincoln folded the hot hands over the fevered breast, straightened the head on the pillow and turned the cover up.

As he stood looking down on the clay tenement the baby cried. After a brief search the milk was found, and taking the little one from its dead mother, the gawky young man began the task of feeding it with a spoon.

Scarcely had he finished this task than the ring of horse's hoofs sounded down the roadway. Good Dr. Allen was coming, and with Hannah Armstrong.

"Too late, Doc," Abe Lincoln said quietly, looking toward the bed. Then holding the baby to Hannah Armstrong, he said, "I've fed calves and pups, but this one seems to leak about the ears. So far all the milk has gone down its neck."

Hannah Armstrong took the baby. Doctor Allen was looking at the hot body, which even now was beginning to turn black under the finger nails and about the mouth.

"Swamp poison," he said. "I could not have saved her—not to-day."

After Dr. Allen and Hannah Armstrong had gone back to New Salem Abe Lincoln stayed long enough to help the woman's husband make a coffin.

On her way home, Hannah Armstrong stopped at Rutledge Inn to consult Mrs. Rutledge as to what should be done for the baby, and it was through her Ann Rutledge heard a portion of the story.

"If there's any preacher or elder or deacon or shoutin' saint in this whole country that's doin' more for his fellers than Abe Lincoln, I want to see the color of his eye," declared Hannah. "He's fulfillin' the Scripture what says, 'Let not one hand know what the other one's doing,' and yet they say he's a sinner."

"I never heard Abe Lincoln called a sinner," Mrs. Rutledge protested in surprise.

"Yes, they do. Jack Armstrong himself heard John McNeil telling a bunch at Hill's store that Peter Cartwright himself said Abe Lincoln was a poor, deluded sinner." Then she turned to Ann and said: "Ann, if I was you, I'd speak to John McNeil about talkin' about Abe Lincoln. John McNeil's a nice fellow, best there is, but 'tain't fair for him to be pointin' Abe Lincoln out as a sinner. 'Twix the two of them, John with his ten thousand, and Abe Lincoln with nothin', I guess Abe's doing his share."

Ann gave Hannah Armstrong no answer.

CHAPTER XIV

THE SPELLING MATCH

During the fall season there were husking-bees where merry parties gathered to put away great piles of corn, partake of bountiful dinners and play games in the evening. There were also a number of log-rollings and new barn-raisings, at all of which Abe Lincoln seemed to be a favorite. In fact, the ungainly clerk in Offutt's store had come to be about the most popular man in town among the men, boys and married women. He did not, however, pay any special attention to the girls, and this seemed out of the regular order, especially as they had a friendly feeling for him.

With the coming of Christmas there was preparation for much simple gift-giving. Ann Rutledge especially took this holiday time for remembering more folks than any other girl in New Salem.

One gift she had worked on with no small amount of pleasure was a gray yarn muffler for Abe Lincoln.

"He goes to all the debates and he might get sore throat," Ann explained to her mother when asking her permission to make the gift. "Besides, he hasn't any people and nobody else might remember about him."

"You're a good girl to try to save Abe Lincoln's throat for the Debatin' Society," Mrs. Rutledge had said, laughing. "There'd be an awful long stretch of stiff neck if cold got into him."

Another of Ann's gifts was a fruit-cake bear made by her own hands for Ole Bar.

When she presented Abe Lincoln with his gift, it proved such a pleasant surprise that he was rendered for the moment speechless. At the same time she handed him the cake. "Give it to poor Ole Bar," she had said. "He seems to be all alone in the world, and I'm afraid nobody will think of him."

Ole Bar, as Abe Lincoln had been, was too much surprised to find words for adequate expression. The next day, however, he returned to the store and as soon as he got a chance to talk with the clerk alone he said, "Abry Linkhorn, me son Abry, every man what's a man and not a pipe-crower in breeches, mates. The Lord God made 'em that way, same as bars what brushes fur and courts in their own decent way. Fur reasons that no man hasn't been able to pick out of me, I haven't got me no Mollie and haven't no use for wimmin. But all them as isn't crippled nor fools nor too old to tote sticks, gets them one at some time. Now you git Ann Rutledge."

"But Ann Rutledge is goin' to be married next year to another man," Abe Lincoln said.

"Say, Abry, me son, did you ever hear of a bar standin' back like a holler-headed pip-jack when his Mollie was paradin' round in front of his eyes just because he thought some other bar was goin' to git her next year! If I must speak fer you, you never did. Nature comes fust. Just you git your own Mollie and let the other feller look out fer hisself."

"But she's promised, Ole Bar. She has given her honorable word."

Ole Bar chewed rapidly a moment. Then he stopped suddenly and said with decision, "Tain't nothin' to that. Wimmin is like bars. The best fighter gits the best female. If you show her what everybody else knows, that you're twice the man that deer-faced penny-grabber of hern is, she's yours, promise or no promise. Git Ann Rutledge. Tain't nobody in forty years has thought of Ole Bar and sent him a present. She'll think of ye, Abry Linkhorn, think of ye. Ain't it worth fightin' fer to have somebody to think of ye? Ain't Ann Rutledge worth fightin' fer?"

Abraham admitted she was worth fighting for, and he thought of this the night of the big spelling-match.

For the development of pioneer talent the New Salem Debating Society had been formed that winter, and had held some interesting meetings. There had been a number of men's meetings for the discussion of political subjects, which Abe Lincoln attended, but he had not yet appeared at the Debating Society.

The spelling-match was to be preceded by a debate on the question, "Resolved that the negro is more unjustly treated than the Indian?" Abe Lincoln had been invited to take one side, whichever he chose, and had said he didn't care which he took, he could win. So he was given the negro side.

On the night of the important occasion the little school house was packed with men and women and children. Candles gleamed brightly on shingles which had been fastened into the chinks of the logs, and a big fire burned in the wide fireplace.

When Abe Lincoln arose to speak it seemed that his head would hit the rafters before he finally got straightened up. He wore jean pants five inches above his shoe tops, below which an expanse of blue yarn socks showed. His collarless shirt was fastened at the neck with a big white button. His coat-tail was so short that to sit on it would have been an impossibility, his heavy shock of black hair stood out sideways, and, as he ran his hands down into his pantaloon pockets and stood for a moment as if embarrassed, a smile passed over the audience and they awaited eagerly the funny stories they thought he would tell, ready to burst into laughter.

After announcing his subject and beginning his speech, his hands came out of his pockets and his embarrassment disappeared. He forgot his surroundings in the earnestness of the thoughts he was giving expression to, and the men and women before him forgot they were not hearing a funny story and leaned forward listening earnestly. "One man says to another," he said, "'You work, you toil, you earn the bread, and I will eat it.' But I say to you that whether it be a king with a crown on his head that says this, or whether it be a class with the power to force men, it all means slavery for the man whose toil, whose work, whose labor is not his own.... Peter Cartwright and others say the question of slavery or no slavery is spreadin', and that unless it is settled there will come war.... Why don't the Government buy the slaves and set them free? This would be right—this would be just—this might save human life and great expense which at last has to be paid by human labor." Then he told them about a slave-pen he had seen in New Orleans where men were sold as the farmers about New Salem sold hogs, and he gave utterance to that basic thought of Democracy that no man is great enough to control another man's freedom of thought or action.

Ann Rutledge sat with her father and mother. "There's something besides wit under that mop of black hair," Rutledge whispered as Abe Lincoln sat down. The homely orator was loudly cheered, Ann Rutledge with smiling face clapping heartily. Lincoln glanced her way, and as his eye rested on her for a moment he thought of Ole Bar's advice.

Then the spelling-match was called. Sides were chosen and rows of young people from the age of Sis Rutledge to that of John McNeil formed one on each side of the room. Mentor Graham gave out the words from Webster's "Speller," examples of their use being required as well as spelling.

Abe Lincoln and John McNeil were on the same side, Ann Rutledge stood opposite.

The schoolmaster opened the book toward the front, for an easy beginning.

"Nag", he gave out.

"N-a-g—My nag runs in the lot."

"Bib."

"B-i-b—Put on his new bib."

"Rude."

"R-u-d-e—A rude girl will romp in the street."

"Coach."

This word three sat down on. It was finally spelled.

"C-o-a-c-h—Few men can afford to keep a coach."

"Spark."

"S-p-a-r-k—What John McNeil does to Ann Rutledge when Pa goes to bed."

A roar of laughter greeted this definition from Sis Rutledge in which John Rutledge joined heartily. Dr. Allen who sat opposite Abe Lincoln looked toward him. There was a smile on his face, but it almost instantly passed, and gave place to an expression the Doctor did not have time to study, for the match was going on.

"Pester."

"P-e-s-t-e-r—Never pester little boys."

"Fore-top."

"F-o-u-r——"

"Next!" called the master.

"F-o-r-e-t-o-p—The hair over the forehead is called the foretop."

"Pompions."

"P-o-m-p-i-o-n-s—Pompions are now commonly called pumpkins.

"Frounce."

"F-r-o-w——"

"Next!" called the master, and several sat down before it was spelled.

"F-r-o-u-n-c-e—To frounce is to curl or frizzle the hair."

"Experience," the word was given to Abe Lincoln.

"E-x-p-e-r-i-e-n-c-e—Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other."

"Love"—the word was given to McNeil.

A giggle went around the room and the words, "John McNeil," were whispered as he spelled "L-o-v-e—love."

"Give the definition," the master said.

"Love is—is—love—is"—John McNeil hesitated and stopped.

"Who knows what love is?" Mentor Graham asked.

Half a dozen hands were raised, among them the big hand of Abe Lincoln, which seemed reaching into the rafters.

"Abe Lincoln," called the master.

"Love is an agreeable passion; love is sometimes stronger than death, and folks that love know it."

Mentor Graham dropped his eye on the open page of the spelling book. "Where did you get your definition?" he asked.

"From the book," Abe Lincoln replied.

"I mean the part that is not in the book?"

"I got that from—from——" and the big, homely youth hesitated, and then said, "that's just plain horse-sense."

"Blasphemy" was the next word given out. It was John McNeil's turn to spell.

"B-l-a-s-p-h-e-m-y—A contemptuous treatment of God." McNeil spoke clearly and glanced toward Ann as if for approval.

After fifteen minutes of spelling, half the lines were seated. Ann Rutledge, John McNeil and Lincoln were standing. It was John's turn again.

"Relict."

"R-e-l-e——"

"Next!" said the master, and the word crossed the line to Ann.

"R-e-l——" she hesitated a moment and glanced toward Abe Lincoln who now stood opposite her. He had raised his hand to his face and one of his long fingers pointed to his eye.

"R-e-l-i-c-t——" she said slowly—"A relict is a woman whose husband is dead."

Again there was a titter and somebody whispered quite audibly, "John McNeil." But McNeil was not laughing. He had seen Abe Lincoln give a sign to Ann that had made her a better speller than himself.

Gradually the lines thinned until only eight remained. Then the master gave the word "Seraphim."

"S-e-r-y——"

"Next!"

"S-e-r-r-y——"

"Next!"

"S-a-r-a-h——"

"Next!"

"C-e-r-i——"

"Next!"

"C-e-r-y——"

"Next!"

"C-e-r-r-i——"

"Next!"

"S-e-r-r——"

"Next!"

It was now Lincoln's time. He had been waiting coolly. All eyes were upon him as he slowly spelled, "S-e-r-a-p-h-i-m."

"Correct!" said Mentor Graham. "Abraham Lincoln is the champion speller of New Salem until his better proves himself."

There was an outburst of applause. Lincoln started to take his seat, but the master motioned to him to keep his place. The room grew quiet.

"The definition, Abe Lincoln?" he said.

"The kind of folks we may associate with if we keep out of the Slough of Despond," answered Lincoln.

"Tell us where you got it," Mentor Graham said.

"I found it in Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's Progress' one night as I lay before the fire tryin' to learn something new. There was a wolf howlin' down in the timber. I tried to learn a new word between each howl. This was the third."

John McNeil walked home with Nance Cameron after the spelling-match.

"Where is John McNeil?" Mrs. Rutledge asked as Ann joined them just outside the door, for he was always on hand to walk with her.

"He's walking home with Nance Cameron," Ann answered.

"What's that for?"

"I guess he wants to tell her something," she said. But she too wondered, for he had not spoken to her, had not even seemed to see her, as he passed with Nance.

Others noticed this also, among them Dr. Allen and Abe Lincoln. But they make no comment as they walked down the roadway together.

CHAPTER XV

"WHO'S AFRAID?"

It was Sis Rutledge who broke the news to Abe Lincoln that Ann said he was afraid of women. She went over to the store on an errand and tarried a few moments, as she always did when an excuse offered, to talk with the tall, good-natured clerk. This time Mrs. Green's quilting-bee offered an excuse.

"Goin' to Mis' Green's quiltin'-bee, are you?" Sis questioned with a sort of malicious innocence.

"Men don't go to quiltin'-bees," Abe Lincoln answered.

"They walk as fur as the door," Sis said. "But you ain't like none of the rest of them. You don't spark none of the girls, nor take none of them to quiltin'-bees nor sugar parties nor nothing. Ann says you're scared of petticoats."

"Ann Rutledge says I'm afraid of petticoats, eh? Tell Ann I'm comin' by this evenin' to see her."

With this astounding piece of news Sis hurried to Ann. She did not, however, report that part of the conversation which might have explained to Ann why he was coming.

"Is John McNeil going with you to Mrs. Green's quiltin'-bee?" Abe asked when she came out to see what he wanted.

"No—John cannot go."

"Would he care if I walked over with you and the rest of them?"

"I don't think he would. We'll all be going together."

"I'll be on hand then," and this was all Ann knew of the matter.

Mrs. Rutledge had gone over early that morning to assist Aunt Sallie Green—getting ready for such an important social function as a quilting-bee was no small matter.

First, there was the quilt to put in the frames and the thread and chalk and strings to have handy, and then there was the dinner, which took several days to prepare. The feature of most interest at the bee itself, however, was not the quilt or the feast, but the discussion of town topics, for women met at the bees who had not had an opportunity of discussing neighborhood news for weeks, and the time was never long enough to tell it all.

At Mrs. Green's one of the first topics for discussion was the postponed marriage of Ann Rutledge and John McNeil. "Ann promised to marry John McNeil and will sometime," Mrs. Rutledge said, "but her father wants her to have a good education, and he says there is no hurry in gettin' her off."

"I wouldn't take no chances in havin' an old maid in the family, if I was you, Mis' Rutledge," said Mrs. Benson. "I hate to give up my Phoebe Jane to Windy Batts, but I never would forgive myself if I stood in her way and caused her to be an old maid."

"Is Phoebe Jane going to marry Windy Batts?" was asked.

"Yes, I've consented. Windy's goin' out to convert the heathens of the West. He thinks he'll tackle the Indians and preach the Gospel and Phoebe Jane's goin' with him to sing."

"What did you Hard Shells turn Mentor Graham out of your company for?" Mrs. Rutledge asked. "He's the finest man in New Salem."

"It was his views on abstinence. Sunday schools, mission societies, temperance societies, nor none of such things is authorized in the Bible; you know they ain't, Mis' Rutledge. Well, if they're not authorized, they're a snare and delusion. Don't meddle with God's business, we say, and that's what a body does that talks against dram-drinkin' and tries to start a society."

"Dr. Allen says rum and such drinks is poison—real, sure enough poison," Aunt Sallie Green remarked.

This statement opened a lively discussion.

"Yes," said one, "and Dr. Allen couldn't get no sort of office after making a remark like that. Nobody can get anywhere without dram-drinking."

"Abe Lincoln don't drink anything stronger than cider."

"And he goes with the Clary Grove bunch, too. Wonder how he manages."

"No telling. The Creator broke up the mold after Abe Lincoln was made. He isn't like no human mortal I ever seen."

"Some folks says he's crazy," Mrs. Benson volunteered.

"It was lazy I heard he was," another said.

"I heard he was dead sure to go to the Legislature, crazy or no crazy."

"He's always reading something. Looks like he'd have all the books read through after awhile. Wherever he walks he reads."

"Yes, and I've found him sprawled all over the cellar door reading," Aunt Sallie Green said.

"And did you ever see him lyin' under that tree in front of the store with his back to the ground and his long legs reaching up the tree? Phoebe Jane said he'd better watch or his legs would grow on up like bean-vines."

"And somebody thought it was so funny, they went and told him," added Mrs. Cameron.

"Mercy!" ejaculated Mrs. Benson; "was he mad?"

"No. He said he'd learned a new verse—something about seeing ourselves as others see us—he wasn't mad, though."

"And they do say he hasn't got but one shirt to his back—that he sends what little money he gets, off to his step-mother."

"And that he never looks at none of the girls. Is this true, Mis' Cameron?"

"He don't seem to. The time we had that woman from Virginia and her two daughters, he slept at the store on the counter every night. But he's obliging that way when we're crowded."

"The men all say he's famous in stump speaking, wrestling and story-telling."

"And the women like him because he's honest, kind to women and forgetful of himself."

"He has a good turn for everybody and everything, from rabbits to such poor stuff as Snoutful Kelly. But he don't show no attention to girls."

"Maybe he has a girl at Gentryville or back on Pigeon Creek."

"I don't think so," Mrs. Cameron said, "and I'd be apt to know."

"Well, I don't know much about his affairs, only he never looks at Ann," Mrs. Rutledge observed. "He really don't pay as much heed to Ann as he does to Sis, and that's little enough. I don't suppose he knows what color her eyes are or her hair."

It was at this stage of the visit that the young people were heard coming across the fields, shouting and laughing.

Several of the women arose and looked out.

"Will you look!" Mrs. Benson exclaimed. "There's Abe Lincoln himself!"

"And he's with Ann Rutledge," Mrs. Armstrong observed.

"Abe Lincoln with Ann?" Mrs. Rutledge said, hurrying to the door.

For the moment she looked bewildered. Then she said, "He's wanting something—and just happened to walk with Ann."

"Just hear him laugh," said Aunt Green; "I'm glad he's come. He's a fine hand to take care of the baby."

At the door the other boys in the party declined to come in. Not so with Lincoln.

"Howdy, ladies, howdy—howdy!" he said, lifting his hat gallantly. "May I come in? I've heard tell of New Salem quiltin'-bees and I'd like to see how it's done."

His welcome was as hearty as his self-invitation, and a few moments later he found himself tucked behind the quilting—frame beside Ann Rutledge who was said to be the best quilter in New Salem.

Ann took out her needles, thread, thimble and emery bag. The end of a chalked string was tossed to her and she quickly made a few white lines.

"See the pattern, Abe?" Mrs. Cameron asked. "It's a tulip design, red flowers and green leaves. The blue is the pot it's growing in." In a few moments the company was quilting and conversation had again begun.

"We was just settin' in to talk about Peter Cartwright and the way he prayed the dancin' out of the legs in this community," Hannah Armstrong explained.

"I agree with him," Mrs. Benson said; "I'm down on all huggin', whether settin' or standin' still or movin' about. I haven't brought Phoebe Jane up the huggin' way. If I had, Windy Batts wouldn't have picked her to help him convert the Indians."

Abe Lincoln whispered something to Ann about a hugging-match and laughed.

"I liked his singing," Mrs. Armstrong said. "I thought I'd cry my eyes out that night he sung 'Down the dark river where the dark willows are weeping night and day.' I never felt so near a grave-yard in my born days. Everybody in the camp was mourning for some loved one."

"Wasn't that the same night he got around to eternal punishment and the thundering smell of smoke?" asked Mrs. Rutledge. "I heard it. After they got started they kept going until morning."

While the religious question was being discussed Abe Lincoln was watching the nimble fingers of Ann Rutledge as with one hand on the top side and one under the quilt she wove the tiny white stitches on the red and green and blue.

Presently the hand of Abe Lincoln disappeared under the quilt. The next minute a look of surprise showed on Ann's face as she whispered, "Turn loose of my hand."

"I'm just trying to learn how it 's done," he whispered back.

Ann looked about. Nobody was paying any attention to them. She tried to move her hand but it was held as fast as if in a vice.

"I'll holler," she said.

"No, you won't," he whispered back.

Then Ann jerked her hand and for the moment it was free.

She bent her slightly flushed face over the quilt and was soon making the white stitches again.

But Lincoln's hand was yet under the quilt, and before she had crossed the red tulip she felt her hand again imprisoned.

"Let go," she whispered, turning a flushed face to him and trying to work with one hand.

"I can't, I've got to hold on to somethin'. I'm afraid of women," was the answer.

The words were whispered in her ear. The flush on Ann's face deepened. She cast a glance around the quilt. Several were now looking at her and saw that she was confused. Her one free hand was working rapidly, but the stitches were being set crooked.

For a moment or two her hand was held in its prison. Once more he whispered, "Afraid of women am I, little Ann Rutledge?"

An instant she lifted her eyes to his. He had never known they were such beautiful violet blue. They were full of appeal, and Abe Lincoln could almost see tears coming.

He dropped her hand, and crawling out from behind the quilt, presented himself before Aunt Sallie and offered his services.

"I can wash dishes, carry wood, rock the baby, do anything that's needed," he said.

"A man like you ought to have a woman," Aunt Sallie Green observed.

"I'm afraid of women," he answered, laughing with boyish merriment.

Ann's face colored again slightly, but she joined the laugh with the others.

"Ready to go, Ann Rutledge?" he said when the party was over.

"I am waiting for mother," she answered with quiet dignity.

He laughed. "Who's afraid?" he whispered as they started home. But Ann walked beside her mother.

This did not prevent word going out that Abe Lincoln was shining up to Ann Rutledge. What other reason on earth could there be for a young man attending a quilting-bee and sitting by her and getting her all nervous right in the middle of her tulip-quilting.

CHAPTER XVI

POLITICS AND STEAMBOATS

There was considerable local pride in the pioneer hamlet of New Salem, and Abe Lincoln had entered into it with enthusiasm from the beginning of his citizenship. While he was ever present at political meetings and never silent, his opinion was that local needs were more pressing than national questions.

There were several needs which he continually urged. As good roads were at present out of the question he advocated river traffic. With boats plying the Sangamon River, freight could be brought to their very door, and the farmer's produce, on the sale of which depended the future of the country, could be marketed at such a saving of time and money as would make the difference between failure and success.

So clearly did the young politician set forth this need that he soon had the majority of the men of the village of the same opinion. Another matter which he considered of first importance was the education of all children in free schools. This matter he also emphasized, showing in his crude but effective way that the future of Democracy depends on the education of the masses.

Having impressed his opinions on the men of the town their next question was how to get these laws. The logical answer was, to elect to their law-making body a representative of these views.

Then it was that the uncouth young backwoodsman, without a dollar in the world and scarce a change of clothing to his back, was asked to represent Sangamon County in the next Legislature.

He agreed to do so, and issued a circular addressed to the "People of Sangamon County." In it he took up all the leading questions of the day: railroads, river navigation, internal improvements, and usury. He dwelled particularly on the matter of public education, alluding to it as the most important subject before the people. The closing paragraph was so constructed as to appeal to the chivalrous sentiments of Clary Grove. "I was born and have ever remained," he said, "in the most humble walks of life. I have no wealthy or popular relatives or friends to recommend me. My case is thrown exclusively upon the independent voters of the county; and if elected they will have conferred a favor upon me for which I shall be unremitting in my labors to compensate. But if," he concluded, "the people in their wisdom shall see fit to keep me in the background, I have been too familiar with disappointments to be very much chagrined."

A little after this the wonderful news was announced that a steamboat, already on the Sangamon River, was to pass New Salem. The captain had sent word that he wanted one of the representative men of the place to help him bring the boat to the village. Abe Lincoln was the man selected. A company of boys and young men also got together and with long-handled axes set out on horseback to go along the bank ahead of the boat and clear tree branches out of the way.

It was a time of great excitement and pregnant with meaning, for here already were signs that Lincoln's dream of river traffic might be brought to pass.

Hours before the appointed time the villagers were out, looking up at the sun to count the passing of time, or gazing down the river between the green branches. Speculation was rife, and there were those who boldly declared they never expected to lay eyes on a real steamboat, owing to their peculiar habit of blowing themselves up.

Almost to a minute of the announced time, as the sun stood, a shrill whistle sounded over the woods and fields and river—a strange sound for the quiet of the new country. Then came the distant shouts of the branch-cutters as they came riding down the banks swinging their long-handled axes.

Comment hushed to an occasional whisper as every head was turned and every eye strained to catch a first glimpse of the first steamboat that ever sailed the Sangamon.

Ann Rutledge was there. She was looking for a man as well as for a boat—a man she had first seen scarce a year before. The plums had been in blossom then. It was too early for them now. But she had her bonnet ready to wave.

As the boat came in sight a great cheer went up from New Salem on the bank. It was answered by the ringing voice of a man on board the steamer, a taller man than any of the others, who waved his hat and shouted across the water: "Hurrah for the Sangamon!" There were other messages, and then a loud, long cheer from the bank: "Hurrah for Abe Lincoln!"

The tree-cutters passed, singing and laughing. The boat steamed by like a bird. The people waved. As the boat neared the bank where Ann Rutledge and her mother and Mrs. Cameron and Nance stood, Abe Lincoln lifted his hat and held it clear of his head, and Ann waved her bonnet and laughed and sang a snatch of song.

As the boat passed from view the shrill whistle sounded several times. Ann listened.

"Nance," she said, "I like the horn better than the whistle. The horn has a gentleness, and it makes me think of plum blossoms. I would like to hear it again, just as it sounded a year ago. The whistle—it is hard—it sounds like blackberry briars."

Nance laughed. "But thorns go with blackberries," she said; "and travel must have its thorns, too, if it keeps up with what Abe Lincoln calls progress."

John McNeil joined the girls.

"Ann," he said, "you look very happy to-day."

"Yes," she replied, "I'm so glad about the steamboat."

"It's just about a year since Abe Lincoln first saw this town," he observed.

"Yes—it was April 19th, last year."

"You remember the date well."

"That was the day I found the first plum blossoms."

"And you found them just in time to wave at Abe Lincoln."

"I was glad he got his boat off the mill dam."

"Ann, what do you suppose Abe Lincoln came to New Salem for?"

"Maybe the same thing you did, John."

"I came to make money, and I'm making it. He didn't come to make money. He don't know how to make money and never will. Besides he gives away all he does get hold of."

"How do you know?"

"I found out. And who do you suppose he gives it to?"

"I don't know."

"His step-mother—step-mother!" and there was a strange tone in his voice whether of contempt or pity, Ann could not tell.

"Perhaps she is old and helpless," she said.

"Well, suppose she is, she's only his step-mother. If a man ever expects to get ahead he must save his pennies and let them make other pennies for him. That's the way to make money."

"I guess you know, John." Ann answered rather absently.

CHAPTER XVII

CAPTAIN LINCOLN

John Rutledge and John McNeil were discussing Abe Lincoln as they sat around a low-burning fire on an early April evening. John Rutledge had just announced it as his opinion that Abe Lincoln had uncommon stuff in him and would make his mark in the world some way.

"I think Abe is a fine fellow," John answered, "but he'll never get anywhere."

"What makes you think that?"

"He doesn't know enough to get on the right side of a question. He's always taking up for something like nigger slaves. How's a man going to get anywhere in politics taking up with such notions?"

"I've never heard him say much about negro slaves, one way or another," Rutledge said. "But the general principle of one man being held as property by another man, that's what Abe Lincoln gets after, and I think he's right."

"Do you know what he's taking up for now?" John McNeil asked.

"Haven't heard. What is it?"

"Indians, he's taking up for our enemies the Indians. A lot of the fellows were talking about the Indians. Ole Bar was telling the way they poison their arrows. He told some of the most blood-curdling cruelties you ever heard."

"And Abe Lincoln took up for the cruelties?"

"Not exactly that, but he said the Indians didn't do any worse than we would. They try to kill us and go at it the best way they know how. We try to kill them and, having bullets instead of arrows, kill more of them. Besides, he says this country belonged to them before it did to us, and we got it just as a big dog gets a bone away from a little dog. And he said more. He said that we, professing to be civilized and Christians, break our promises and treaties worse than they do."

Rutledge took his pipe from his mouth and slowly exhaled a thin cloud of smoke. Then he said: "Well, John, the only thing the matter with this is that it's all true."

"Maybe so," McNeil admitted. "But what's it going to get him, taking up for slaves and Indians."

"And poor little children whose fathers beat them, and women dying alone in the forest?"

It was Ann who asked this question. She had been sitting by her little sewing-table, mending stockings.

"That's what I'm asking," John McNeil repeated. "How's a man going to make money, fighting customers who swear in his store, or leaving his shop to hunt folks who have paid him a penny too much; or to get votes, taking up for folks that haven't any?"

The young man spoke quite seriously. John Rutledge laughed and then said: "It's the principle of things that counts. At present, however, only local issues are being discussed. On these Abe Lincoln is what we want."

"You'll lose your vote if you cast it for him. He'll never get anywhere politically. Mark what I tell you."

It was only a few days after this that the entire New Salem community was thrown into great excitement by news of an Indian invasion. Treaties had been broken and Black Hawk, the head of the warring Sacs, was again on the war path.

A company was immediately formed in New Salem to go out against the redskins. While the organization was yet forming, a demand was made for Abe Lincoln as captain.

He had a rival for the position and the choice was to be made by vote, each man as he voted to take his place behind the man of his choice. The voting progressed briskly. When it was finished the line headed by Abe Lincoln was three times as long as that of his rival. Great cheers were given, and Lincoln himself was exuberant with joy. A good horse was brought to him, the stirrups were lengthened, and he mounted. Some there were who had never seen him on a horse, perhaps. But now to the shouts of on-lookers and members of his company, he showed himself a horseman of experience and the angular lines of his body took on a really military bearing.

With horses prancing and men shouting and calling, a parade was formed to march up the one street of New Salem. It was a motley crowd, some of them in buckskin, some in foxed and homespun breeches, with a generous sprinkling of coon-skin caps, that formed the company of Captain Lincoln. In addition to the Clary Grove gang, Wolf Creek patriots were there and the rowdies from Sand Town, and it was freely conceded by the cool-headed men of New Salem that not a man could handle such a crowd save Abe Lincoln.

Ann Rutledge looked on with smiling face and clapped her hands and shouted when Lincoln went prancing by on his good horse, his face bright with excitement and his black hair flying back from his forehead in the wind. But a shadow came over her face the night after the parade, and during the next few days, when every woman in town was foxing breeches for the Company, she tried to see him, for she had something to say.

Unable to find an opportunity she sent Sis to tell him Ann had something to give him before he went away.

He came at once, and Mrs. Rutledge told him Ann was somewhere in the back yard.

He found her in the garden where a few peach trees were struggling into bloom.

"I've come, Ann," he said, stopping before her. "You sent for me, didn't you?"

"Yes, Abraham Lincoln. There's something I want to say to you before you go away. I've been holding it against you—but I want to tell you that I forgive you."

"Forgive me!" he said in astonishment. "What did I ever do to you that I should need forgiveness for?"

"Don't you remember the quilting-bee?" she asked, her face flushing slightly.

"And you forgive me?"—he asked the question seriously. Then he laughed. "Don't forgive. Forgiveness might tempt me to do it again. Just remember as I go away that I'm not afraid of wolves or bears or catamounts or snakes or Indians, or any living creature—except women. It's women I'm afraid of," and he laughed.

The flush yet showed on Ann's face and her voice was a bit unsteady as she said, "And there's something else."

"What is it, Ann?"

"I—I don't want anything to harm you. I want you to come back sound and well."

There was pleading in her eye and a hint of quaver in her voice.

Abe Lincoln regarded her thoughtfully a moment. Her blue eyes did not shift before his steady gaze.

"Why do you want me to return unharmed?" he asked.

"Because you are kind to the weak and forgotten folks of earth, and not many think of this kind: because I think often what the child said."

"What child?"

"The beaten and abused child of old Kelly that you saved from more pain."

"What was it the child said?"

"'God came,'" she said. "'And his name was Abe Lincoln.'"

There was an almost imperceptible twitching in Abe Lincoln's face.

"There are many children," she continued, "many suffering, sad and helpless ones who need a strong friend to help them. My father says you have a future. I want you to come back to your future."

"Do not fear for me. I will come back—to my future. Good-bye." And he held out his hand.

"First, may I pin a sprig of wild plum on your coat for luck? It's almost too early for them yet and I searched the thicket before I found this, which looks as if it had only half opened its white eyes, but it gives out its springtime fragrance to stir up happy memories and hopes."

Abe Lincoln held out the lapel of his coat. "Look at me, Ann," he said when she had fastened the flower there.

She raised her eyes. They were rimmed with tears.

Abe Lincoln stared a minute as if wholly unable to comprehend the girl; then he said: "Good-bye, Ann, take care of yourself," and he turned hurriedly away.

CHAPTER XVIII

"BOOKS BEAT GUNS, SONNY"

It was the tenth day of July when Abe Lincoln, who had for weeks been struggling through the swamps and forests of Michigan territory in pursuit of the fleeing Black Hawk, turned his face homeward.

The journey was made with many hardships. The remnant of the Company went hungry for days, and to make matters worse several horses were stolen, among them Abe Lincoln's.

A portion of the long way home was made down the Illinois River in a canoe. The most of it, however, was tramped, and it was a jaded, footsore and ragged ex-captain that arrived in New Salem the latter part of July.

Nobody knew he was coming, no preparations had been made for him, and when he went to his former home at the Camerons' he learned that, owing to an increase in the size of the family, there was no longer bed space for him, but that John Rutledge had said he could lodge at the Inn.

This was about the best news he could have heard, and tattered and weary, yet with head held high and smiling face, he presented himself at Rutledge Inn.

His welcome here was hearty and genuine, every member of the family, even to Ann, trying to make him feel at home and all alike impatient to hear the story of his travels.

"Did you see the Indians scalp anybody?" Sonnie asked excitedly.

"No—but we got there after half a dozen had just been scalped. We came upon them in the early mornin' just as the red sun fell over their bodies. There were small, red marks on top of the heads. The men were scouts who had been surprised. One wore buckskin breeches."

"And did your men always give ready obedience?" asked Davy.

"Most of the time they did. Once I came near havin' a riot with them. An aged Indian bearin' a safe-conduct pass from General Cass came to camp. He was footsore, hungry and weary. The men did not want to receive him. They said he was a spy and should be killed, and they made plans to kill him. Just as they were about to proceed, their six-foot-four Captain arrived and stopped proceedin's. This angered the men. One of them shouted at me that I was a coward. I told him to choose his weapon and step out and we'd see who was the coward. This he did not do. The frightened old Indian was sent on his way in safety."

"It was a hard campaign for you, and with little results," Rutledge remarked.

"Hard, yes—but not without results. There are different kinds of results, you know, Mr. Rutledge. I didn't kill any Indians, but I had far better luck than that. I got acquainted with Major John T. Stuart of Springfield, who asked to be of service to me."

"What's he going to do for you?" asked Davy. "Give you a fine gun or sword?"

"Better than that, Son, he is goin' to let me use his books."

"Books!" Sonny exclaimed, and the boy's voice was so charged with disgust they all laughed.

"Yes, books," Abe Lincoln replied. "Rattlesnakes and panthers and Indians know the fightin' game and have weapons for the purpose, but this sort of fightin' will never make the world a better place to live in. If the world ever gets to be the kind of a place you ask God for when you pray, 'Thy kingdom come,' it's comin' by brains and hearts instead of by claws and fangs. You can't shoot sense nor religion into a man any more than you can beat daylight into the cellar with a club. Take a candle in, and the thick darkness disappears; just so give the people knowledge and their ignorance and intolerance and other devilment will disappear. I haven't lived so powerful long yet, but I have lived long enough to make up my mind that for the good of all mankind books beat guns, Sonny."

CHAPTER XIX

ABE MAKES A SPEECH

When Abe returned from his few months of service in the Black Hawk War, he learned that his political opponent, Peter Cartwright, had been making the most of his opportunity.

Abe Lincoln had announced his candidacy before he went away, but had had no time even to plan a speaking tour. Peter Cartwright had remained on his itinerary and had been speaking to large audiences. The weapon Cartwright had been using against his opponent with most telling effect was the implied charge that he was an infidel.

While Captain Lincoln had been gone from New Salem a minister had come to the hamlet to make his home, and was already one of the circle composed of Mentor Graham, Dr. Allen, William Green, John Rutledge, and other of Abe Lincoln's good friends.

Even before his return these friends had discussed the matter of religion as it pertained to the success of this candidate, and had decided, especially since Cartwright was making much capital out of the fact that Abe Lincoln was not a church member, that he should become one.

Accordingly he was called into council and the case set before him.

"It is not necessary that I go to the Legislature to keep my own self-respect," he said to them. "It is necessary, however, that I deal honestly with myself, and it would be neither fair to me nor to your society for me to become a member, since I do not believe as you claim to. I have no use whatever for a God that plots against innocent children and helpless women, encourages murder, that throws rocks down on honest soldiers and, as recorded, does many other foolish and wicked things which would shame a decent Indian. I'm familiar with the Good Book—too familiar to swallow some portions of it whole. Whenever you get together on the rule 'Love your neighbor' that Jesus himself taught, I'll join you."

"Cartwright is making much of your refusal to be counted with Christians."

"And by doin' just this thing Cartwright is provin' himself either ignorant of the Constitution of the United States or knowingly betraying it. Our Constitution stands forever for the separation of Church and State, of religion and politics. If my common, everyday horse-sense will not let me believe in purgatorial fires, what has that to do with making Sangamon River navigable? If I haven't any better sense than to pray to an image, that's my affair so long as it is not allowed to enter into or affect my public policies, or I do not try to inflict it on someone else. This is what I make out of our Constitutional guarantee of civil and religious liberty. I haven't had much chance to go to school. I haven't had many books to study. But, gentlemen, I've eaten up the Constitution of our country and digested it a dozen times over. I may get its meaning wrong. I think I'm right. If I am, then Cartwright is wrong—just as wrong as I would be to campaign against him because he preaches hell fire and eternal punishment, which to me is as damnable a doctrine as my lack of such belief can ever be to him."

"Abe Lincoln," said John Rutledge, "I believe you are right. Stand by your guns. You may lose now but you will come out all right in the long run."

Abe Lincoln's first appearance on the stump in this campaign was at Pappsville, a small place eleven miles west of Springfield. A public sale had been advertised and the young candidate thought it would be a good chance to get a hearing.

After the sale a friend who had accompanied him went about shouting, "Public speaking! Draw near! Draw near!"

The crowd soon collected, for every man was interested in a stump speech.

Hardly had the crowd gathered than a fight started and a general row seemed inevitable.

Seeing a friend of his being pushed about by the rough crowd, Abe Lincoln jumped from the platform, and, rushing into the crowd, began shouldering the excited men apart so that his man could get out. Finally, he pushed against a man who turned about and defied him. Without a word he grabbed the man by the neck and the seat of the breeches and tossed him a dozen feet. This act had a quieting effect on the fight and the fighters stopped to see what manner of political candidate this was who could pitch men about as a farmer pitches a shock of wheat.

What they saw on the rude platform was an unusually tall, ungainly and homely young fellow, who wore a mixed-jeans coat, bob-tailed and short-sleeved, pantaloons made of flax and tow linen, a straw hat and pot-metal boots.

His speech was short. He said, "Gentlemen and fellow-citizens, I presume you all know me. I am humble Abraham Lincoln. I have been solicited by my friends to become a candidate for the Legislature. My politics are short and sweet like the old woman's dance. I am in favor of a national bank. I am in favor of the internal revenue system, education for everybody, and a high, protective tariff. These are my sentiments and political principles. If elected I shall feel thankful. If not, I am used to defeat. It will be all the same."