The boyhood of Lincoln

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

ELEANOR ATKINSON

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LINCOLN NATIONAL
LIFE FOUNDATION

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Digitized by the Internet Archive

in 2012 with funding from

State of Indiana through the Indiana State Library

http://archive.org/details/boyhoodoflincolOOatki

THE BOYHOOD
OF LINCOLN

NOTE

The illustrations in this book
are reproduced by the courtesy of
the Lincoln Farm Association.

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

BY
ELEANOR ATKINSON

NEW YORK

THE McCLURE COMPANY

MCMVIII

Copyright, 1908, by The McClure Company

Published, October, 1908

Copyright, 1908, by The Phillips Publishing Company

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Nolan Creek, in which little Abraham was

nearly drowned Frontispiece

FACING

The scene of Lincoln's birth. The pole on the PAGE
knoll at the right marks the spot where
the birthplace cabin originally stood 16

A bit of the farm on which Abraham Lincoln

was born 16

The Lincoln farm spring is famous through-
out Kentucky for the purity of its water.
It was this spring that invited Tom
Lincoln to locate by it, and it was the
waters of this spring that christened the
battleship " Kentucky " 16

The old Louisville and Nashville pike, which

runs through the Lincoln farm 16

On the edge of the Lincoln birthplace farm 32

The old house on the road to the mill where

little Abraham used to stop for " cookies " 32

viii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PACING

The old Nolan Mill, around which little PAGE
Abraham used to play 32

The Lincoln family mill stone which was used
to grind the family meal has for many
years been used as a door " stoop " to the
house that was built upon the farm after
the Lincolns went away 32

On the Magnolia Road which runs from
Hodgenville to the Lincoln birthplace
farm 48

In the country about Lincoln's first home they
ford most of the streams rather than build

48

THE BOYHOOD
OF LINCOLN

" ^T JT TANT to know what kind o'
%/ %/ boy Abe Lincoln was ? Well,
* » I reckon old Dennis Hanks
is the only one livin' that knowed him that
arly, Knowed him the day he was born,
an' lived with him most o' the time till he
was twenty-one an' left home fur good.
' Abe,' sez I, many a time, ' if you die fust
folks'll have to come to me to find out
what kind o' boy you was.' We used to
laugh over that, fur it looked like he'd
live longer'n me. I was ten years older'n
Abe, an' he was as strong as a hoss.
' Well, Denny,' he'd say, ' I don't want
you to die fust, fur folks'd jist nigh about
pester me to death to l'arn what kind o'
boy you was.' He-he-he! Abe'd had his
3

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

joke if he'd died the next minute." The
old man chuckled to himself and lapsed
into a doze by the fire.

It was in January, 1889, that the writer
spent a long, leisurely afternoon with Lin-
coln's cousin and playmate in his home in
Charleston, Illinois. He was ninety years
old at that time, and died three or four
years later. He was living with his daugh-
ter, Mrs. Dowling, herself a great grand-
mother of sixty-nine, in a comfortable
brick cottage, built, as she said, nearly
a half century before, probably the first
brick house in the town. The furniture
was so old-fashioned that Tom Lincoln
may well have made some of it.

In a pleasant, low-ceiled sitting-room,
with a bright rag-carpet and a coal fire,
Dennis Hanks sat, tilted back in a splint-
bottomed chair, asleep, in the light of
the pale winter sunshine that streamed
4

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

through a western window. A withered
figure of an ancient man he was, in loose
black clothes, his slippered feet resting on
a rung of the chair, his gnarled, blood-
less hands clasped on the top of a thorn
stick that was polished by long use. A
soft, black felt hat covered his head, a
thin fringe of silvery white hair falling
from under the brim to his coat collar.
His face was clean-shaven, and his skin
was of that peculiar, rosy transparency
seen only in first and second childhood.
Asleep, the old man's face was as unre-
flective as an infant's, but in animation
it showed a curious resemblance to Lin-
coln's, although cast in a smaller, weaker
mold — the high cheek-bones, broad fore-
head, wide mouth and strong jaw, and
the deep-set eyes that sparkled with droll
memories, or were dimmed by tragic ones.
He awoke suddenly and blinked his
5

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

eyes, one of which was blind, at his visitor,
with the sleepy amazement of a baby, and
her presence had to be explained to him
again. In his speech he had many words
characteristic of the South, grafted on the
Western stock, although he had left Ken-
tucky at the age of eighteen.

" Tom Linkhorn — hey? Yes, that's the
way we punounced it, back thar in Kain-
tucky, an' until Abe 1'arned us better. But
I reckon I was too old a dog to 1'arn new
tricks, an' I furgit sometimes. Well, Tom
an' Nancy Hanks Lincoln lived on a farm
in Hardin County about two miles from
us, when Abe was born. I ricollect Tom
comin' over to our house, one cold morn-
in' in Feb'uary an' sayin' kind o' slow an'
sheepish : ' Nancy's got a boy baby.'

" Mother got flustered an' hurried up
her work to go over to look after the little
feller, but I didn't have nothin' to wait
6

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

fur, so I jist tuk an' run the hull two
miles to see my new cousin. Nancy was
layin' thar in a pole bed lookin' purty
happy. Tom'd built up a good fire and
throwed a b'ar skin over the kivers to keep
'em warm, an' set little two-year-old Sairy
on the bed, to keep 'er off the dirt floor.
Yes, thar was only a dirt floor in the
cabin. Sairy always was a say-nothin' lit-
tle gal with eyes like an owl's, an' she set
thar an' stared at the new baby, an' pinted
'er finger at him.

" You bet I was tickled to death. Babies
wasn't as plenty as blackberries in the
woods o' Kaintucky. Mother come over
an' washed him an' put a yaller flannen
petticoat an' a linsey shirt on him, an'
cooked some dried berries with wild honey
fur Nancy, an' slicked things up an' went
home. An' that's all the nuss'n either of
'em got. Lordy! women nowadays don't
7

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

know what their grandmothers went
through an' lived — some of 'em. A good
many of 'em died arly. Abe's said many
a time that Nancy'd lived to be old if
she'd had any kind o' keer, an' I reckon
she must 'a' ben strong to 'a' stood what
she did.

" ' What you goin' to name him, Nan-
cy? ' I asked her.

" ' Abraham,' she says, * after his gran'-
father that come out to Kaintucky with
Dan'l Boone. He was mighty smart an'
wasn't afeered o' nothin', an' that's what
a man has to be out here to make any-
thing out o' hisself.'

" I rolled up in a b'ar skin an' slep' by
the fire-place that night, so I could see
the little feller when he cried, and Tom
had to git up an' 'tend to him. Nancy
let me hold him purty soon. Folks are al-
ways askin' me if Abe was a good-lookin*
8

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

baby. Well, now, he looked jist like any
other baby, at fust; like red cherry-pulp
squeezed diy, in wrinkles. An' he didn't
improve none as he growed older. Abe
never was much fur looks. I ricollect how
Tom joked about Abe's long legs when
he was toddlin' round the cabin. He
growed out o' his clothes faster'n Nancy
could make 'em.

" But he was mighty good comp'ny,
solemn as a papoose, but interested in
everything. An' he always did have fits
o' cuttin' up. I've seen him when he was
a little feller, settin' on a stool, starin' at
a visitor. All of a sudden he'd bust out
laughin' fit to kill. If he told us what he
was laughin' at, half the time we couldn't
see no joke.

" Looks didn't count them days, no-
how. It was stren'th an' work an' dare-
devil. A lazy man or a coward was jist
9

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

pizen, an' a spindlin' feller had to stay
in the settlemints. The clearin's hadn't no
use fur him. Tom was strong, an' he
wasn't lazy nor afeerd o' nothin', but he
was kind o' shif 'less — couldn't git nothin'
ahead, an' didn't keer putickalar. Lots o'
them kind o' fellers in arly days, druther
hunt an' fish, an' I reckon they had their
use. They killed off the varmints an' made
it safe fur other fellers to go into the
woods with an ax.

" When Nancy married Tom he was
workin' in a carpenter shop in Liztown.
— Elizabethtown? — Well, I reckon. We
was purty keerless about names them
days. It wasn't Tom's fault he couldn't
make a livin' by his trade. Thar was
sca'cely any money in that kentry. Every
man had to do his own tinkerin', an' keep
everlastin'ly at work to git enough to eat.
So Tom tuk up some land. It was mighty
10

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

ornery land, but it was the best Tom could
git, when he hadn't much to trade fur it.
"Pore? We was all pore, them days,
but the Lincolns was porer than anybody.
Choppin' trees, an' grubbin' roots, an'
splittin' rails, an' huntin' an' trappin' didn't
leave Tom no time to put a puncheon
floor in his cabin. It was all he could do
to git his fambly enough to eat and to
kiver 'em. Nancy was tumble ashamed o'
the way they lived, but she knowed Tom
was doin' his best, an' she wasn't the pes-
terin' kind nohow. She was purty as a
pitcher an' smart as you'd find 'em any-
whar. She could read an' write. The
Hankses was some smarter'n the Lin-
colns. Tom thought a heap o' Nancy, an'
was as good to her as he knowed how.
He didn't drink, or swear, or play cyards,
or fight; an' them was drinkin', cussin',
quarrelsome days. Tom was popylar, an'
11

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

he could lick a bully if he had to. He
jist couldn't git ahead, somehow.

" It didn't seem no time till Abe was
runnin' 'round in buckskin moccasins an'
breeches, a tow-linen shirt an' coonskin
cap. Yes, that's the way we all dressed
them days. We couldn't keep sheep fur
the wolves, an' pore folks didn't have
sca'cely any flax except what they could
git tradin' skins. We wasn't much better
off'n Injuns, except 't we tuk an intrust
in religion and polytics. We et game an'
fish, an' wild berries an' lye hominy, an'
kep' a cow. Sometimes we had corn
enough to pay fur grindin' meal an'
sometimes we didn't, or thar wasn't no
mill nigh enough. When it got so we
could keep chickens, an' have salt pork
an' corn dodgers, an' gyardin sass an'
molasses, an' haye jeans pants an' cowhide
boots to wear, we felt as if we was gittin'
12

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

along in the world. But that was some
years later.

" Abe never give Nancy no trouble
after he could walk except to keep him
in clothes. Most o' the time we went b'ar-
foot. Ever wear a wet buckskin glove?
Them moccasins wasn't no putection
ag'inst the wet. Birch bark, with hickory
bark soles, stropped on over yarn socks,
beat buckskin all holler, fur snow. Me 'n'
Abe got purty handy contrivin' things
thataway. An' Abe was right out in the
woods, about as soon's he was weaned,
fishin' in the crick, settin' traps fur rab-
bits an' muskrats, goin' on coon-hunts
with Tom an' me an' the dogs; follerin'
up bees to find bee-trees, an' drappin'
corn fur his pappy. Mighty interesfin'
life fur a boy, but thar was a good many
chances he wouldn't live to grow up.

" Tom got holt o' a better farm after
13

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

awhile, but he couldn't git a clear title
to it, so when Abe was eight years old,
an' I was eighteen, we all lit out fur In-
diany. Kaintucky was gittin' stuck up,
with some folks rich enough to own nig-
gers, so it didn't seem no place fur pore
folks anymore. My folks was dead, an'
I went with some relations — the Spar-
rows. Yes; same Sparrows 'at raised
Nancy. Nancy emptied the shucks out o'
the tow-linen ticks, an' I piled everything
they had wuth takin' on the backs o' two
pack hosses. Tom could make new pole
beds an' puncheon tables an' stools, eas-
ier'n he could carry 'em. Abe toted a gun,
an' kep' it so dry on the raft, crossin' the
Ohio, that he shot a turkey hen with it
the fust day we got to Indiany. He
couldn't stop talkin' about it till Tom
hollered to him to quit.

" Tom brung his tools, an' four hun-
14

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

derd gallons o' whisky to trade fur land
with Mr. Gentry. It was in Spencer
County, back a piece from the Ohio river.
We had to chop down trees to make a
road to the place, but it was good land,
in the timber whar the women could pick
up their firewood, an' on a crick with a
deer-lick handy, an' a spring o' good
water. We all lived in pole-sheds fur a
year. — Don't know what pole-sheds is? —
Well, they're jist shacks o' poles, roofed
over, but left open on one side; no floor,
no fireplace, not much better 'n a tree. I've
seen Injun lodges that'd beat pole-sheds
all holler fur keepin' out the weather.
I don't see how the women folks lived
through it. Boys are half wild anyhow,
an' me 'n' Abe had a bully good time.
Thar was lots o' game an' fish, an' plenty
o' work.

" 'Bout the time we got our cabins up
15

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

the Sparrows both died o' milk-sickness
an' I went to Tom's to live. Then Nancy
died o' the same disease. The cow et pizen
weeds, I reckon. O Lord, O Lord, I'll
never furgit the mizry in that little
green-log cabin in the woods when Nancy
died!

"Me 'n' Abe helped Tom make the
coffin. He tuk a log left over from buildin'
the cabin, an' I helped him whipsaw it
into planks an' plane 'em. Me 'n' Abe
held the planks while Tom bored holes
an' put 'em together, with pegs Abe'd
whittled. Thar wasn't sca'cely any nails in
the kentry an' little iron, except in knives
and guns an' cookin' pots. Tom's tools
was a wonder to the hull deestrict. 'Pears
to me like Tom was always makin' a cof-
fin fur some one. We laid Nancy close to
the deer-run in the woods. Deer was the
only wild critters the women wasn't af eerd
16

^J

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

of. Abe was some'er's 'round nine years
old, but he never got over the mizable way
his mother died. I reckon she didn't have
no sort o' keer — pore Nancy! "

The old man fell asleep again, exhaust-
ed by his own emotions. An ancient clock
with a quaint face, ticked loud on an old-
fashioned dresser, while Dennis slept, a
long half -hour.

" Nancy," was murmured, to start him
off again, when he woke up.

" I reckon it was thinkin' o' Nancy an'
things she'd done said to him that started
Abe to studyin' that next winter. He
could read an' write. Me'n' Nancy'd l'arnt
him that much, an' he'd gone to school a
spell; but it was nine miles thar an' back,
an' a pore make-out fur a school, anyhow.
Tom said it was a waste o' time, an' I
reckon he was right. But Nancy kep' urg-
in' Abe to study. ' Abe,' she'd say, ' you
17

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

Tarn all you kin, an' be some account,'
an' she'd tell him stories about George
Washington, an' say that Abe had jist as
good Virginny blood in him as Washing-
ton. Mebbe she stretched things some, but
it done Abe good.

"Well, me 'n' Abe spelled through
Webster's spellin' book twict before he
got tired. Then he tuk to writin' on the
puncheon floor, the fence rails and the
wooden fire-shovel, with a bit o' charcoal.
We got some wrappin' paper over to Gen-
tryville, an' I made ink out o' blackberry
brier-root an' copperas. Kind o' ornery
ink that was. It et the paper into holes.
Got so I could cut good pens out o' tur-
key-buzzard quills. It pestered Tom a
heap to have Abe writin' all over every-
thing thataway, but Abe was jist wropped
up in it.

" * Denny/ he sez to me many a time,
18

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

1 look at that, will you? Abraham Lin-
coln! That stands fur me. Don't look a
blamed bit like me ! ' An' he'd stand an'
study it a spell. 'Peared to mean a heap
to Abe. When Tom got mad at his mark-
in' the house up, Abe tuk to markin' trees
'at Tom wanted to cut down, with his
name, an' writin' it in the sand at the
deer-lick. He tried to interest little Sairy
in l'arnin' to read, but she never tuk to
it. She was the only woman in the cabin
that year, an' no neighbors fur miles.
Sairy was a little gal, only 'leven, an'
she'd git so lonesome, missin' her mother,
she'd set by the fire an' cry. Me 'n' Abe
got 'er a baby coon an' a turtle, and tried
to git a fawn but we couldn't ketch any.
Tom, he moped 'round. Wasn't wuth
shucks that winter. He put the corn in
in the spring an' left us to 'tend to it, an'
lit out fur Kaintucky. Yes, we knowed
19

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

what he went fur, but we didn't think he'd
have any luck, bein' as pore as he was,
and with two childern to raise.

"I reckon Abe'd a got discouraged
about l'arnin' after awhile if it hadn't
ben fur his stepmother. We was all nigh
about tickled to death when Tom brung
a new wife home. She'd ben Sairy Bush,
an' Tom'd ben in love with 'er before he
met up with Nancy, but her folks would-
n't let Tom have 'er, because he was shif '-
less. So she married a man named John-
ston an' he died. Then her 'n' Tom got
married. She had three childern of 'er
own, an' a four-hoss wagon-load o' goods
— feather pillers an' homespun blankets,
an' patchwork quilts an' chists o' drawers,
an' a flax-wheel an' a soap kittle, an' cook-
in' pots an' pewter dishes — lot o' truck
like that 'at made a heap o' diffrunce in a
backwoods cabin.

20

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

" Yes, Aunt Sairy was a woman o'
propputy, an' could 'a' done better, I
reckon, but Tom had a kind o' way with
the women, an' maybe it was somethin'
she tuk comfort in to have a man that
didn't drink an' cuss none. She made a
heap more o' Tom, too, than pore Nancy
did. Before winter he'd put in a new floor,
he'd whipsawed an' planed off so she could
scour it; made some good beds an' cheers,
an' tinkered at the roof so it couldn't snow
in on us boys 'at slep' in the loft. Purty
soon we had the best house in the kentry.
Thar was eight of us then to do fur, but
Aunt Sairy had faculty an' didn't 'pear
to be hurried or worried none. Little
Sairy jist chirked right up with a mother
an' two sisters fur comp'ny. Abe used to
say he was glad Sairy had some good
times. She married purty young an' died
with her fust baby. I reckon it was like
21

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

Nancy, she didn't have no sort o'
keer."

After a moment of reverie, old Dennis
began to chuckle to himself. Tragedy and
comedy intermingled in his memory as
only Shakespeare and real life can bring
them together, without incongruity or
without losing a laugh or a tear.

" Aunt Sairy sartinly did have faculty.
I reckon we was all purty ragged and
dirty when she got thar. The fust thing
she did was to tell me to tote one o' Tom's
cyarpenter benches to a place outside the
door, near the hoss-trough. Then she had
me ?n' Abe 'n' John Johnston, her boy,
fill the trough with spring water. She put
out a big gourd full o' soft soap, an' an-
other one to dip water with, an' told us
boys to wash up fur dinner. You jist nat-
urally had to be somebody when Aunt
Sairy was around. She had Tom build 'er
22

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

a loom, an' when she heerd o' some lime
burners bein' 'round Gentryville, Tom had
to mosey over an' git some lime, an' white-
wash the cabin. An' he made 'er an ash-
hopper fur lye, an' a chicken-house noth-
in' could git into. Then — te-he-he-he! she
set some kind of a dead-fall trap fur him
an' got him to jine the Baptist Church!
Cracky, but Aunt Sairy was some pun-
kins!

" An' it wasn't only in things to make
us comf 'able an' well thought of. She did-
n't have no eddication herself, but she
knowed what l'arnin' could do fur folks.
She wasn't thar very long before she
found out how Abe hankered after books.
She heerd him talkin' to me, I reckon.
' Denny,' he'd say, ' the things I want to
know is in books. My best friend's the
man who'll git me one.' Well, books was-
n't as plenty as wild-cats, but I got him
23

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN
one by cuttin' a few cords o' wood.
It had a lot o' yarns in it. One I ricol-
lect was about a feller that got near
some darned fool rocks 'at drawed all
the nails out o' his boat an' he got a duck-
in'. Wasn't a blamed bit o' sense in that
yarn."

" Sindbad The Sailor, in The Arabian
Nights?"

" Hey? Well, I reckon. I ain't no schol-
ar. Abe'd lay on his stummick by the fire,
an' read out loud to me 'n' Aunt Sairy, an'
we'd laugh when he did, though I reckon
it went in at one ear an' out at the other
with her, as it did with me. Tom'd come
in an' say: ' See here, Abe, your mammy
kain't work with you a botherin' her like
that ; ' but Aunt Sairy always said it did-
n't bother her none, an' she'd tell Abe to
go on. I reckon that encouraged Abe a
heap.

24

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

" ' Abe,' sez I, many a time, ' them
yarns is all lies.'

" ' Mighty darned good lies,' he'd say,
an' go on readin' an' chucklin' to hisself,
till Tom'd kiver up the fire fur the night
an' shoo him off to bed.

" I reckon Abe read that book a dozen
times, an' knowed them yarns by heart.
He didn't have nothin' much else to read
except Aunt Sairy's Bible. He cut four
cords o' wood onct, to git one stingy little
slice of a book. It was a life of Washing-
ton; an' he'd lay over the Statoots o' In-
diany half the night. I couldn't make
head nor tail o' that punk. We'd git holt
of a newspaper onct in a while, an' Abe'd
l'arn Henry Clay's speeches by heart. He
liked the stories in the Bible, too, an' he
got a little book o' fables some'ers. I reck-
on it was them stories he read that give
him so many yarns to tell. I asked him
25

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

onct after he'd gone to lawin' and could
make a jury laugh or cry by flrin' a yarn
at 'em:

" ' Abe,' sez I, c whar did you git so
blamed many lies? ' An' he'd always say,
' Denny, when a story l'arns you a good
lesson, it ain't no lie. God tells truths in
parables. They're easier fur common folks
to understand an' ricollect.' His stories
was like that. If a man'd ben doin' any-
thing low-down, Abe'd make him feel
meaner'n a suck-egg dog about it.

" Seems to me now I never seen Abe
after he was twelve 'at he didn't have a
book some'ers 'round. He'd put a book
inside his shirt an' fill his pants pockets
with corn dodgers, an' go off to plow or
hoe. When noon come he'd set down un-
der a tree, an' read an' eat. An' when he
come to the house at night, he'd tilt a cheer
back by the chimbly, put his feet on the
26

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

rung, an' set on his backbone and read.
Aunt Sairy always put a candle on the
mantel-piece fur him, if she had one. An'
as like as not Abe'd eat his supper thar,
takin' anything she'd give him that he
could gnaw at an' read at the same time.
I've seen many a feller come in an' look
at him, Abe not knowin' anybody was
'round, an' sneak out ag'in like a cat, an'
say: ' Well, I'll be darned! ' It didn't seem
natural, nohow, to see a feller read like
that. Aunt Sairy'd never let the chil-
dern pester him. She always said Abe
was goin' to be a great man some day.
An' she wasn't goin' to have him hen-
dered."

Another long, dozing nap intervened.
The sun was declining in the west, and
life's sands were running out for Dennis
Hanks. He lived only in that faraway
past with the hero of his youth, memory
27

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

flaring up and dying away as the forces
of life ebbed and flowed. Every time he
slept he had to be reminded of the eager
listener, and to have some spring touched
to set his mind going again. Sometimes
he would awaken only to sit and gaze
absently out of the window, or to laugh
to himself. If spoken to he would start
and stare with his one dim eye a moment,
before he could make the long leap to the
present.

" Hey? Is that the only way Abe l'arnt
things — out o' books? You bet he was too
smart to think everything was in books.
Sometimes a preacher, 'r a circuit-ridin'
jedge 'r lyyer, 'r a stump-speakin' poly-
tician, 'r a school teacher'd come along.
When one o' them rode up, Tom'd go out
an' say : ' Light, stranger,' like it was po-
lite to do. Then Abe'd come lopin' out on
his long legs, throw one over the top rail
28

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

and begin firin' questions. Tom'd tell him
to quit, but it didn't do no good, so Tom'd
have to bang him on the side o' his head
with his hat. Abe'd go off a spell an' fire
sticks at the snow-birds, an' whistle like he
didn't keer. ' Pap thinks it ain't polite to
ask folks so many questions,' he'd say. ' I
reckon I wasn't born to be polite, Denny.
Thar's so darned many things I want to
know. An' how else am I goin' to git to
know 'em? '

" When Abe was about seventeen,
somethin' happened that druv him nigh
crazy. Thar was a feller come over from
England — Britisher, I reckon — an' spoke
in Congress about a settlemint he was
goin' to lay out on the Wabash, buyin'
out some loony Dutch religious fellers that
had mills an' schools thar. Now, mebbe
you think 'at us folks livin' in the back-
woods didn't know what was goin' on in
29

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

the world. Well, you'd be mighty mis-
taken about that. We kep' track o' Con-
gress fur one thing. Thar wasn't much to
talk about but polytics, an' we thrashed
over everything in argymints at the cross-
roads stores. The big-bugs down East
wasn't runnin' everythin'. Polytics had
sort o' follered us over the Gap trail an'
roosted in the clearin's. Thar was Henry
Clay in Kaintucky an' Old Hick'ry in
Tennessee, at it tooth an' nail, an' we all
tuk sides.

" So when this furrin feller spoke in
Congress about that gyarden o' Eden he
was goin' to fence in on the Wabash, we
soon heerd about it. Boats brung news
every week. An' one day arly in the win-
ter, a big keel-boat come down from Pitts-
burg over the Ohio. They called it c the
boatload o' knowledge,' it had sich a passel
o' books an' machines an' men o' l'arnin'
30

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

on it. Then little rowboats an' rafts crossed
over from Kaintucky, an' ox teams an'
pack-hosses went through Gentryville and
struck across kentry to — to — plague on it!
Abe'd tell you in a minute "

" New Harmony, Robert Owen's col-
ony?"

" That's it ! Thar wasn't sca'cely any-
thing else talked about fur a spell. I
reckon some folks thought it was New
Jerusalem, an' nobody'd have to work.
Anyway, thar was a lot o' wuthless cusses
lit out fur that settlemint. Abe'd a broke
his back to go, an' it nigh about broke his
heart when he couldn't.

" Denny, thar's a school an' thousands
o' books thar, an' fellers that know every-
thing in creation,' he'd say, his eyes as
big 'n' hungry as a hoot-owl's. The
schoolin' cost only about a hunderd dol-
lars a year, an' he could 'a' worked out
31

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

his board, but Abe might jist as well 'a'
wished fur a hunderd moons to shine at
night. I was married to one o' the John-
stone gals by then an' had hard grub-
bin' to keep my fambly, or I'd 'a' helped
him. Tom didn't set no store by them
things. An' thar it was, only about sixty
miles west of us, an' Abe couldn't go!
The place petered out after awhile, as it
was sartin to do, with all them ornery fel-
lers in it, livin' off the workers. But I
reckon it lasted long enough fur Abe to
'a' l'arned what he wanted to know. Well,
I reckon Abe put it out o' his mind,
after awhile. If he couldn't git a thing
he wanted he knowed how to do with-
out it, an' mebbe he looked at it dif-
frunt afterwards. But things'd ben eas-
ier fur him if he could 'a' gone to that
school."

The tragedy of it was too big to real-
32

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

ize ! Was fate never to tire of piling pangs
on that great heart? Robert Owen, Will-
iam McClure, Robert Dale Owen, Audu-
bon for a time, and others as celebrated;
pioneers of liberal thought; founders of
the Indiana school system and township
libraries; forerunners of modern educa-
tion, social ideals and science; so near as
to touch his experience, to excite his hopes,
but just outside his opportunity; mock-
ing at him with this sardonic turn of
the wheel! The wilderness life suddenly
took on new terrors; the youth who over-
came such baffling, deadening mischances,
loomed up to colossal proportions. The
clock ticked on; clinkers dropped into the
grate. A sleek house-cat came in on vel-
vet paws and curled himself up on the
braided hearth-rug, in such luxurious
content as Lincoln never knew. Old
Dennis awoke, with prodigious yawns,
33

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

and took up the dropped stitch of his
narrative.*

" When Abe growed up he was a tur-

* Robert Owen, the wealthy English philanthropist and
reformer, arrived on the lower Wabash in January, 1826, with
distinguished disciples, to begin his social and educational
experiment at New Harmony. The most dramatic and unique
episode of pioneer life in the Middle West, it permanently
affected and gave direction to intellectual development,
although the experiment itself did not long survive. Dennis
Hanks's account of it is as remarkable for its shrewdness of
analysis as for its accuracy. The earlier biographers entirely
overlooked the incident as, in all probability, having deep
and lasting influence on Lincoln's character and career. Not
finding anything confirmatory of Dennis Hanks's statement,
on this phase of Lincoln's youth, appeal was made to Miss
Ida M. Tarbell, who recovered so many facts that illuminate
his early life. She permits me to quote her here: "When I was
writing my * Early Life of Lincoln ' I looked up this very point,
feeling sure that he must have heard more or less of the colony
and been interested in it, but if I found anything at all it was
unimportant. It is not possible that he did not take an interest
in it, for the people of Indiana were very much stirred up over
Owen's teachings, and there was much discussion in the news-
papers of that day, and later in the meeting of the Indiana
state legislature." We are indebted, therefore, to Dennis Hanks
for this distinct contribution to Lincolniana. It is probable
that, in middle life, when the earlier biographers talked with
him, he had forgotten it. In his second childhood memory
of his youthful days was fully recovered. And he died before
Miss Tarbell began her exhaustive researches.

34

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

rible cut-up an' joker. Aunt Sairy was
a good Baptist an' Tom an' the Johnston
childern had jined, so the Baptist preach-
ers always stopped at the house. Onct
Abe tried to git a preacher to 'count fur
them miracles about Jonah an' the whale
an' the others, an' got him so worked up
that when Abe asked him who was the
father of Zebedee's childern, blamed if he
could tell.

" When Abe was nineteen he was as
tall as he was ever goin' to be, I reckon.
He was the ganglin'est, awkwardest fel-
ler that ever stepped over a ten-rail, snake-
fence. He had to duck to git through a
door' an' 'peared to be all j'ints. Tom used
to say Abe looked as if he'd ben chopped
out with an ax an' needed a jack-plane
tuk to him. Aunt Sairy often told Abe
'at his feet bein' clean didn't matter so
much, because she could scour the floor,
35

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN
but he'd better wash his head, or he'd be
a rubbin' dirt off on her nice whitewashed
rafters.

" That put an idy in his head, I reckon.
Several of us older ones was married then,
an' thar was always a passel o' youngsters
'round the place. One day Abe put 'em up
to wadin' in the mud-puddle by the hoss-
trough. Then he tuk'em one by one, turned
'em upside down, an' walked 'em acrost
the ceilin', them ascreamin' fit to kill.

"Aunt Sairy come in, an' it was so
blamed funny she set down an' laughed,
though she said Abe'd oughter to be
spanked. I don't know how far he had
to go fur more lime, but he whitewashed
the ceilin' all over agin. Aunt Sairy's said
many a time 'at Abe'd never made her
a mite o' trouble, 'r spoke a cross word
to 'er sence she come into the house. He
was the best boy she ever seen.
36

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

" He always liked to take a bag o' corn
an' ride off to a hoss-mill about eighteen
mile away to git some meal ground. The
mill was worked by a plug an' sweep,
pulled by a bag-o'-bones boss. Abe used
to say his hound could eat meal faster'n
that mill could grind it an' then go hun-
gry fur supper. But it was a good place
fur visitin' an' swappin' yarns. Other
men'd be comin' in an' have to wait all
day, mebbe, an' they'd set on a rail fence
an' listen to Abe crackin' jokes or argyin'
polytics. Abe'd come home with enough
news an' yarns to last a week. I didn't
want no other comp'ny when Abe was
thar.

" Abe had a powerful good mem'ry.
He'd go to church an' come home an' say
over the sermon as good as the preacher.
He'd often do it fur Aunt Sairy, when
she couldn't go, an' she said it was jist
37

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

as good as goin' herself. He'd say over
everything from beloved brethern to Amen
without crackin' a smile, pass a pewter
plate fur a collection an' then we'd all
jine him in singin' the Doxology. Aunt
Sairy thought a heap o' Abe, an' he did
o' her, an' I reckon they'd a done most
anything fur one another.

" She seemed to know Abe had more
pride'n the rest of us. He always had a
extry pair o' butternut-dyed jeans pants,
an' a white shirt. When he was only thir-
teen Aunt Sairy said to him: 'Abe, you
git holt o' some muslin some'ers an' have
some white shirts, so you kin go to folks'
houses right.' So he cut nine cords o'
wood an' got nine yards o' unbleached
muslin, an' she bleached it an' shrunk it
an' made him two shirts. He put one o'
them on every Sunday. Mebbe Abe
wouldn't 'a' ben the man he was if it
38

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN
hadn't ben fur his mother an' stepmother
encouragin' him.

" It was fur to git money to buy books,
that Abe tuk them v'yages on the flat-
boats. He was all fur bein' a river man
fur a while. Tom owned Abe's time till
he was twenty-one an' didn't want him
to go. He was too vallyble fur chores.
When Abe was on the farm Tom had
more time to hunt an' fish, an' he'd al-
ways ruther do that than grub roots 'r
hoe corn. Yes, Tom was kind o' shif 'less.
Well, him an' Abe struck up some kind
o' dicker, an' Abe went off down the
river, fur fifty cents a day, an' a bonus.
It was big wages, but he never went but
twict.

" Abe didn't take to tradin' nohow. He

was too honest to make a livin' at it, an'

folks tuk advantage of him. He was

popylar, an' when he clerked the store

39

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

had plenty o' fellers comin' to it who
liked to hear him talk, but most o' them
thought he was plumb foolish when he
got to tradin', so he quit that. Aunt Sairy
always said he'd oughter go into polytics,
because when he got to argyin' the other
feller'd purty soon say he had enough.
Abe was a leader, too. He could break
up rowdy crowds by tellin' a story that'd
make 'em ashamed or make 'em laugh.
He wouldn't take no sass, neither. If a
feller was spilin' fur a fight, an' nothin'
else'd do him, Abe'd accomydate him all
right. Ginerally Abe could lay him out
so he wouldn't know nothin' about it fur
a spell. In rasslin', an' runnin', an' hoss-
back ridin', an' log-rollin', an' rail-split-
tin' he could beat everybody. You'd 'a'
thought there was two men in the woods
when he got inter it with an ax. When
he was fifteen he could bring me down
40

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

by throwin' his leg over my shoulder. I
always was a little runt of a feller.

"Well! Lemme see. Yes; I reckon it
was John Hanks 'at got restless fust an'
lit out fur Illinois, an' wrote fur us all
to come, an' he'd git land fur us. Tom
was always ready to move. He never had
his land in Indiany all paid fur, nohow.
So he sold off his corn an' hogs an' piled
everything into ox-wagons an' we all went
— Linkhorns an' Hankses an' Johnstons,
all hangin' together. I reckon we was like
one o' them tribes o' Israel that you kain't
break up, nohow. An' Tom was always
lookin' fur the land o' Canaan. Thar was
five famblies of us, then, an' Abe. It tuk
us two weeks to git thar, raftin' over the
Wabash, cuttin' our way through the
woods, fordin' rivers, pryin' wagons an'
steers out o' sloughs with fence rails, an'
makin' camp. Abe cracked a joke every
41

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

time he cracked a whip, an' he found a
way out o' every tight place while the
rest of us was standin' 'round scratchin'
our fool heads. I reckon Abe an' Aunt
Sairy run that movin', an' good thing
they did, or it'd 'a' ben run into a swamp
an' sucked under.

" It was a purty kentry up on the
Sangamon, an' we was all tuk up with
the idy that they could run steamboats
up to our cornfields an' load; but we
had fever'n ager tumble, so, in a year
or two, we moved back here to Coles
County, an' we've ben here ever sence.
Abe helped put up a cabin fur Tom on
the Sangamon, clear fifteen acres fur
corn, an' split walnut rails to fence it in.
Abe was some'ers 'round twenty-one. I
reckon it must 'a' ben them same rails
'at John Hanks tuk "

A bewildered look came into the old
42

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

face that, an instant before, had been as
full of his story as an eager child's. Here
was a shut door that memory could not
pass. But he tugged at the stubborn lock :

" I reckon it must 'a' ben them same
rails 'at John Hanks "

" Took into the Convention at Chi-
cago? "

His dim eye stared into a blurred past,
unseeing. Then he said, whimperingly, as
if here was something to which he had
never been reconciled :

" It must 'a' ben about that time 'at Abe
left home fur good."

The curtain of night had dropped down
before the sun, too. It was dark outside.
Mrs. Dowling brought in an oil lamp
and set it down exactly in the middle
of a crocheted mat on a little table. She
glanced at her father, sleeping placidly
in his chair, and pulled down the shade
43

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

to shut out the chill of the winter even-
ing. Then she unburdened her mind.

" I don't want you to go away think-
ing so bad of Grandfather Lincoln. That's
what us younger ones called Uncle Abe's
father; and we called him Uncle Abe,
though he was only father's second cousin.
I reckon kinfolks counted for more in
early days. I'm just tired of hearing
Grandfather Lincoln abused. Everybody
runs him down. Father never gave him
credit for what he was. He made a good
living, and I reckon he would have got
something ahead if he hadn't been so gen-
erous. He had the old Virginia notion of
hospitality — liked to see people sit up to
the table and eat hearty, and there were
always plenty of his relations and grand-
mother's willing to live on him. Uncle
Abe got his honesty, and his clean notions
of living and his kind heart from his
44

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

father. Maybe the Hanks family was
smarter, but some of them couldn't hold
a candle to Grandfather Lincoln, when it
came to morals. I've heard Grandmother
Lincoln say, many a time, that he was
kind and loving, and kept his word, and
always paid his way, and never turned a
dog from his door. You couldn't say that
of every man, not even to-day, when men
are decenter than they used to be."

A shrill cry, like that from a fright-
ened child awakened by a bad dream,
came from the chair in the sheltered
corner.

"Whar's my watch? Whar's my
watch?" Old Dennis was searching his
pockets frantically, and tottering to a
fall. Mrs. Dowling rushed to him and
set him upright.

" Here, father, here's your watch! No-
body's going to take it from you. Uncle
45

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

Abe gave him that watch, and he gets to
dreaming that some one is trying to rob
him of it." She restored his cane and
hat, and disappeared into the kitchen
again.

" Come 'ere," he beckoned mysterious-
ly. "If you won't tell nobody I'll show
you somethin'." He pulled from a secret,
inside pocket, a heavy, old-fashioned coin-
silver watch, with a steel chain.

" Abe gimme that."

"When Abe left home?" hoping to
start the stream of memory to flowing,
without a break in its continuity. He
looked puzzled. Memory had leaped a
gap of thirty-five years, to the next dra-
matic event in that simple life.

" I went down to Washington to see

Abe, an' thar he was with a big watch, an' a

chain spread over his wescoat. I plagued

him about bein' so fine, an' he sez : ' Den-

46

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

ny, I bet you'd carry a watch if you had
one, you old coon.' He went out an'
bought this fur me an' I've carried it
ever sence. Ain't many folks ever gits to
see it. Thar's a feller up in Chicago, that's
plumb crazy over Abe, an' he offered me
five hunderd dollars fur it." He stowed
the precious relic away carefully.

" I went down to Washington to see
Abe about a neighbor that'd got into
trouble. It was durin' the war, an' thar
was a lot o' soldiers around, stickin' their
blamed guns in everybody's faces. I hunt-
ed 'round fur a back door to sneak in,
but couldn't find none. A soldier asked
me what I was doin' thar.

" ' I want to see Abe Lincoln,' I sez.

" ' You kain't see him now,' he sez like
a smarty.

" ' You bet I kin. Old Dennis Hanks
hain't come clean from Illinois to git his
47

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

orders from a jay-bird like you!' Te-he-
he-he! that feller got as red's an old
turkey gobbler.

" Well, I waded right through a passel
o' folks, an' opened a door they was all
watchin', an' thar sot Abe as tall an' thin
as his own shadder, at an ol' desk he'd tuk
from his law office in Springfield,

' ' Hey ! ' I hollered, ' git up thar an'
shake! I ain't after no office, Abe.'

" He run an' gethered me in like they
did in the Bible, so I had to take out my
bandanner. Abe looked kind o' tired. I
reckon they worked him purty hard down
thar, but he laughed hearty.

" ' I'm glad you don't want no office,
Denny; most of 'em do. You've got a
heart as big as a steer, but you ain't got
no head fur an office.' I up an' told him
what I come fur. He sez : ' I'm too busy
to-day, Denny, but Stanton'll fix that up
48

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

fur you. You go over to the house an'
Mary'll yive you somethin' to eat an' a
shakedown.'

" But I put up to a tavern where I
could feel more to home. Mary was a
good woman, but she was too high-falu-
tin fur me. Abe used to bring her over
to the farm to visit Aunt Sairy, an' me
'n' him'd set an' talk about old times. That
riled Mary considerable. She'd git on her
high horse an' say: ' If Abe was low-down
an' pore you needn't be throwin' it up to
him,' but I reckon Abe didn't look at it
thataway. Abe never noticed Mary's pes-
terin' no more'n an elephant would a
skeeter. He'd jist git holt o' her hand,
'r pat her on the shoulder, an' she'd quiet
down. You bet Mary was a good woman
or Abe'd never 'a' loved her like he done.
She didn't have nothin' ag'inst his kin-
folks, pussonal, but I reckon she figgered
49

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

it out that we wouldn't help Abe's chances
none. Mary thought the sun rose an' set
in Abe. Thar's one thing Abe didn't miss,
his women-folks stuck up fur him ; Nancy
an' Aunt Sairy an' Mary, an' I reckon
that made up fur a good many other
things. It must 'a' ben the way he treated
'em. Onct he said to me : ' Denny, men
oughter be mighty good to women, fur
nature give 'em the big end o' the log to
lift, an' mighty little stren'th to do it
with.'

" Mary was smart an' high-feelin' about
Abe. When they was fust married she'd
toss her head way up in the air like a
blood-colt, an' tell us what a big man
Abe was goin' to be. I enjyed laughin'
over that, fur when a feller's as honest
as Abe was, it ginerally stands in the way
o' his gittin' on in the world. He purty
nigh always got the wust of a trade. An'
50

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

then he didn't look great. He looked jist
like the rest of us, only some humlier;
kind o' common an' neighborly, not a bit
stuck-up. You jist naturally liked to set
an' visit with Abe.

" Well, as I was sayin', when I went
down to Washington near the end o' the
war, I knowed better 'n to put Mary out
when mebbe she'd be havin' fine comp'ny.
Next mornin' Abe gimme the papers fur
my case an' told me to take 'em over to
Stanton.

" * Abe,' sez I, ' blamed if I know whar
the plageoned place is ! ' Abe laughed an'
said somethin' about the mountain com-
in' to someun, talkin' in parables like old
times, an' sent out a little feller 'at had
on brass buttons enough to stock a store,
an' purty soon Stanton come rampagin'
in, snarlin' about them papers. But Abe
made him sign 'em, an' he went out
51

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

switchin' his spike-tail coat like a pesky
crow. An' I said:

' ' Abe, if I's as big as you I'd take
that little feller acrost my knees an' spank
him. He's too sassy.' Abe he laughed an'
said Stanton was a bigger feller 'n him
some ways, an' I said he had a darned
ugly way o' showin' it. But that was jist
like Abe, never runnin' anybody down,
findin' the good in 'em, an' bearin' with
their little meannesses. Abe didn't know
how to be mean hisself . When God made
Abe Lincoln He left the meanness out
fur other folks to divide up among
'em. I reckon the rest of us got our
sheer."

Mrs. Dowling opened the door, giving
a glimpse of a bright dining room and a
board bountifully spread. Hospitality was
one of the Hanks' failings also.

" Supper's ready, father. You'll have
52

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

supper with us, won't you? " to the
stranger.

"Go 'way! Lemme 'lone!" cried old
Dennis querulously, like a spoiled child
interrupted in some absorbing play. His
daughter made a comical face and shut
the door hastily. Almost instantly he fell
asleep. The cheerful sounds of the family
at their evening meal penetrated to the
silent room. Life goes on thus, flowing
smoothly through long stretches of years ;
morning and evening, working, eating
and sleeping; children playing in the sun
and growing tall. A church bell called to
the weekly prayer-meeting. How peace-
ful it was, how reassuring! Suddenly, as
startling as a pistol shot in the silence,
old Dennis cried out of his sleep:

" Dead! Honest Abe dead! My God, it
ain't so!"

He was staring at the flickering shad-
53

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

ows of the firelight on the wall, in dazed
horror, as at some fearful messenger. Then
he aroused himself from the dream, shifted
uneasily in his chair and sighed.

"I've heerd that night an' day fur nigh
onto twenty-five years, an' I kain't believe
it yit. I was settin' in my shop peggin'
away at a shoe, when a man come runnin'
in from the street, lookin' like a ghost,
an' said : ' Dennis, honest Abe's dead ; shot
dead ! '

" It was in Aprile, an' the sun was
shinin' an' the grass turnin' green, jist
as if nothin' had happened, an' it seemed
to me like the arth'd stopped. Thar wasn't
any tradin' done sca'cely. Everything was
kivered with black, an' people standin'
round in the streets cryin'. I had to go
out to the farm to tell Aunt Sairy. Tom'd
ben dead a good while, an' she was livin'
on thar, alone.

54

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

" ' Aunt Sairy,' sez I, ' Abe's dead.'

" ' Yes, I know, Denny. I knowed
they'd kill him. I ben awaitin' fur it,'
an' she never asked no questions. She was
gittin' purty old, an' I reckon she thought
she'd soon jine him. She never counted
on seein' him agin after he went down to
Washington, nohow. He come out to the
farm to see 'er, an' when he kissed her
good-by she reached her old hands up to
his shoulders an' looked at him as if he's
alayin' in his coffin then, an' sez to him:
'You'll never come back, Abraham!'

" ' Don't you worry, Mammy,' he sez.
' I'll come back all right.' But Mary sez
Abe hisself thought he never would. He
had them warnin' dreams an' second sight,
an' them ain't healthy signs.

" Well, I was gittin' purty old myself.
I was sixty-six, an' nothin' but a little
dried-up nubbin of a shoemaker. I didn't
55

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

take no more intrust in things, an' folks
thought I'd go next. But it's ben nigh onto
twenty-five years, an' here I am livin' yit,
an' not wuth shucks to nobody. 'Pears to
me like thar ain't ben nothin' happened
wuth talkin' about, an' nobody much wuth
talkin' to sence Abe's gone.

" Some folks think you won't know
anybody when you git to heaven, but I
bet I'll know Abe Lincoln. He went
straight thar, an' I ain't takin' no chances
on it, but am livin' the best I know how,
by church rules, so I kin go to heaven,
too, an' meet up with Abe. Thar was a
preacher feller come here onct, an' I was
talkin' to him about thar not bein' any
sense in Abe bein' shot thataway, an' him
only fifty-six an' strong as a hoss. An' he
said 'at he reckoned Abe'd done his work
an' the Lord knowed best.

" ' Done his work, hey? ' I hollered.
56

THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN

' He hadn't lived his life. I wouldn't V
give a darn if he'd never done another
lick o' work, if he'd jist come home an'
let me visit with him onct in awhile.

" Thar won't be another man like Abe
Lincoln this side o' jedgement day!"

THE END

57

7/. 1009.0 SI. 0/OiS