The Life of Abraham Lincoln for Young People - Harriet Putnam (sight word books txt) 📗
- Author: Harriet Putnam
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Four years went by, and then the Lin-colns took a bet-ter farm at Knob Creek, built a cab-in, dug a well, and cleared some land. The new home was but a short way from the patch on the side of that hill on No-lin’s Creek, but a good farm might have been made there if Thom-as Lin-coln had been a man who would stay in one place, and work the soil year in and year out. He had not the pluck to keep a farm up to the mark.
When A-bra-ham was five years old he oft-en went with his folks three miles from home to a place called “Lit-tle Mound.” A log-house had been built there, and a man found whose name was Rev. Da-vid El-kins, and who was glad to come a long way through the woods to preach from the Word of God.
The small boy soon had a great love for that good man. The ways of the child drew the preach-er to him and they were soon fast friends.
Ere long one came by who said he could teach all the folks to spell and read. A class was made up, and, strange to say, the five-year-old A-bra-ham stood at the head of it! His moth-er had taught him. She, al-so, had told him to be kind and good to all. There were sol-diers on the road from time to time, go-ing home from the war of 1812. One day the young child saw one near him when he held in his hand a string of fish he had just caught. He gave all his fish to the sol-dier.
THE NEW HOME AND THE FIRST GRIEF.
When A-bra-ham was sev-en years old, his fa-ther Thom-as Lin-coln, found his farm too much for him. What he liked best was change. He said it would suit him to move to the West, where rich soil and more game could be found.
He thought he would take what he could of their poor goods, set off and hunt up a home. So he built a frail craft, put his wares on it, but soon got on the snags and lost most of what he had. He swam to the shore. In a few days the wa-ters, which had come up as high as the banks, went down, and folks a-long shore helped him get up a few of his goods from the bot-tom of the riv-er. These goods he put in-to a new boat, which he said he would pay for as soon as he could, and then float-ed down the O-hi-o to Thomp-son’s Land-ing. Here he put what he had brought with him in-to a store-house, and went off a score of miles through the woods to Pig-eon Creek. He found the soil all he thought it would be. He chose a tract of land, and then made a long trip to “en-ter his claim” at Vin-cennes. The next thing to do was to go back to Ken-tuc-ky.
The cool days of No-vem-ber had come ere wife and chil-dren, with two hor-ses which a friend had loaned, and what goods were left, set out for the far off land of In-di-an-a. When night came they slept on the ground on beds made of leaves and pine twigs. They ate the game the ri-fles brought down, cooking it by the camp fire. From time to time they had to ford or swim streams. They were glad that no rain fell in all their long route.
Sa-rah and A-bra-ham thought it was nice to spend weeks in the free, wild life of the woods. A-corns and wal-nuts they found, and fish came up when they put a fat worm on their hooks. They could wade and swim in the cool brooks and gather huge piles of dried leaves for their sound sleep at night.
But at last they came to the banks of one stream from which they could look far off to the land where they were to make their new home. All was still there save the sound of the birds and small game. Right in-to the heart of the dense woods they went on a piece of tim-ber-land a mile and a half east of what is now Gen-try-ville, Spen-cer Co. This was A-bra-ham Lin-coln’s third home. Here his fa-ther built a log “half-face,” half a score and four feet square. It had no win-dows and no chim-ney. For more than twelve months the Lin-colns staid in this camp. They got a bit of corn from a patch, and ground it in-to meal at a hand grist-mill, sev-en miles off, and this was their chief food. There was, of course, game, fish, and wild fruits.
Their beds were still heaps of dry leaves. The lad slept in a small loft at one end of the cab-in to which he went up by means of pegs in the wall. A-bra-ham was then in his eighth year, tall for his age, and clad in a home-spun garb or part skins of beasts. The cap was made of the skin of a coon with the tail on. The child did much work. He knew the use of the axe, the wedge, and the maul, and with these he found out how to split rails from logs drawn out of the woods. To clear the land so that they could plant corn to feed the fam-i-ly, and hew tim-ber to build the new house was work that gave fa-ther and son much to do. At last Sa-rah and A-bra-ham felt that they had a house to be proud of, though it was not much bet-ter than the one they had left. Its floor had not been laid, and there were no boards of which to make the door when they moved in. Some friends had come to see them, and as there would be more room for them in the new house they went to live there. It was a glad day when Thom-as Spar-row, whose wife was Mr. Lin-coln’s sis-ter, and Den-nis Hanks, her nephew, came.
The brief joy of the Lin-colns was soon lost in a great grief. An ill-ness came to that place and man-y folks died. Mrs. Lin-coln fell sick. She knew that she must leave her dear ones. Her work was at an end. As her son stood at her bed-side she said, “A-bra-ham, I am go-ing a-way from you. I shall not come back. I know that you will be a good boy, that you will be kind to Sa-rah and to your fa-ther. I want you to live as I have taught you, and to love your Heav-en-ly Fa-ther.”
The grief that came then to A-bra-ham Lin-coln made its mark on him, a stamp that went with him through life.
When that moth-er died, that dear moth-er, to whom he gave so much love, the boy felt that he did not want to live an-y long-er. He thought his heart would break. He staid days by his moth-er’s grave. He could not eat. He could not sleep. Soon Mr. and Mrs. Spar-row, the guests, died. The strange ill-ness came to them. It came, al-so, e-ven to the beasts of the fields in that land. Those were sad days.
Nan-cy Hanks Lin-coln was 33 years old when she died. Her hus-band, Thom-as, made a cof-fin for her of green lum-ber cut with a whip-saw, and she, with oth-ers, was bur-ied in a small “clear-ing” made in the woods. There were no pray-ers or hymns. It was great grief to young A-bra-ham that the good man of God who spoke in the old home was not there to say some words at that time. It was then that the ten-year old child wrote his first let-ter. It was hard work, for he had had small chance to learn that art. But his love for his moth-er led his hand so that he put down the words on pa-per, and a friend took them five scores of miles off. Good Par-son El-kins took the poor note sent from the boy he loved, and, with his heart full of pit-y for the great grief which had come to his old friends, and be-cause of his deep re-gard for the no-ble wom-an who had gone to her rest, he made the long jour-ney, though weeks passed ere he could stand by that grave and say the words A-bra-ham longed to hear.
READING BY THE FIRELIGHT; THE NEW MOTHER; THE FIRST DOLLAR.
With moth-er gone, Sa-rah Lin-coln must keep the house, do the work, sew and cook for fa-ther and broth-er. She was 11 years old. The boy did his part but though he kept a bright fire on the hearth, it was still a sad home when moth-er was not there.
Books came to give a bit of cheer. An a-rith-me-tic was found in some way and al-so a co-py of Æ-sop’s Fa-bles. For a slate a shov-el was used. For a pen-cil a charred stick did the work.
A year went by, and one day Thom-as Lin-coln left home. He soon came back and brought a new wife with him. She was Sa-rah Bush John-ston, an old friend of E-liz-a-beth-town days. She had three chil-dren—John, Sa-rah and Ma-til-da. A kind man took them and their goods in a four-horse cart way to In-di-an-a.
A great change then came to the Lin-coln house. There were three bright girls and three boys who made a deal of noise. A door was hung, a floor laid, a win-dow put in. There were new chairs, a bu-reau, feath-er-beds, new clothes, neat ways, good food, lov-ing care, and much to show A-bra-ham that there was still some hope in the world.
The new moth-er was a kind wom-an, and at once took the sad boy to her heart. All his life from that time, he gave praise to this friend in need.
A chance came then for a brief time at school, and this was “made the most of.” Folks said the boy “grew like a weed.” When he was twelve it was said one “could al-most see him grow.” At half a score and five years old he was six feet and four in-ches high. He was well, strong, and kind. He had to work hard. He did most of the work his fa-ther should have done. But in the midst of it all he found time to read. He kept a scrap-book, too, and put in it verse, prose, bits from his-to-ry, “sums,” and all print and writ-ing he wished to keep. At night he would lie flat on the floor and read and “fig-ure” by fire light.
One day some one told A-bra-ham that Mr. Craw-ford, a man whose home was miles off, had a book he ought to read. This was a great book in those days. It was Weems’ “Life of Wash-ing-ton.” The youth set off through the woods to ask the loan of it. He got the book and read it with joy. At night he put it in what he thought was a safe place be-tween the logs, but rain came in and wet it, so he went straight to Craw-ford,
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