''Abe'' Lincoln's Yarns and Stories - Alexander Kelly McClure (best android ereader TXT) 📗

with impressive solemnity, that he would expect the ladies to subdue the rebellious spirit of their husbands, and to that end he thought it would be well to reform their religion. “True patriotism,” said he, “is better than the wrong kind of piety.”

 

THE ONLY REAL PEACEMAKER.

During the Presidential campaign of 1864 much ill-feeling was displayed by the opposition to President Lincoln. The Democratic managers issued posters of large dimensions, picturing the Washington Administration as one determined to rule or ruin the country, while the only salvation for the United States was the election of McClellan.

We reproduce one of these 1864 campaign posters on this page, the title of which is, “The True Issue; or ‘That’s What’s the Matter.’”

The dominant idea or purpose of the cartoon-poster was to demonstrate McClellan’s availability. Lincoln, the Abolitionist, and Davis, the Secessionist, are pictured as bigots of the worst sort, who were determined that peace should not be restored to the distracted country, except upon the lines laid down by them. McClellan, the patriotic peacemaker, is shown as the man who believed in the preservation of the Union above all things—a man who had no fads nor vagaries.

This peacemaker, McClellan, standing upon “the War-is-a-failure” platform, is portrayed as a military chieftain, who would stand no nonsense; who would compel Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Davis to cease their quarreling; who would order the soldiers on both sides to quit their blood-letting and send the combatants back to the farm, workshop and counting-house; and the man whose election would restore order out of chaos, and make everything bright and lovely.

 

THE APPLE WOMAN’S PASS.

One day when President Lincoln was receiving callers a buxom Irish woman came into the office, and, standing before the President, with her hands on her hips, said:

“Mr. Lincoln, can’t I sell apples on the railroad?”

President Lincoln replied: “Certainly, madam, you can sell all you wish.”

“But,” she said, “you must give me a pass, or the soldiers will not let me.”

President Lincoln then wrote a few lines and gave them to her.

“Thank you, sir; God bless you!” she exclaimed as she departed joyfully.

 

SPLIT RAILS BY THE YARD.

It was in the spring of 1830 that “Abe” Lincoln, “wearing a jean jacket, shrunken buckskin trousers, a coonskin cap, and driving an ox-team,” became a citizen of Illinois. He was physically and mentally equipped for pioneer work. His first desire was to obtain a new and decent suit of clothes, but, as he had no money, he was glad to arrange with Nancy Miller to make him a pair of trousers, he to split four hundred fence rails for each yard of cloth—fourteen hundred rails in all. “Abe” got the clothes after awhile.

It was three miles from his father’s cabin to her wood-lot, where he made the forest ring with the sound of his ax. “Abe” had helped his father plow fifteen acres of land, and split enough rails to fence it, and he then helped to plow fifty acres for another settler.

 

THE QUESTION OF LEGS.

Whenever the people of Lincoln’s neighborhood engaged in dispute; whenever a bet was to be decided; when they differed on points of religion or politics; when they wanted to get out of trouble, or desired advice regarding anything on the earth, below it, above it, or under the sea, they went to “Abe.”

Two fellows, after a hot dispute lasting some hours, over the problem as to how long a man’s legs should be in proportion to the size of his body, stamped into Lincoln’s office one day and put the question to him.

Lincoln listened gravely to the arguments advanced by both contestants, spent some time in “reflecting” upon the matter, and then, turning around in his chair and facing the disputants, delivered his opinion with all the gravity of a judge sentencing a fellow-being to death.

“This question has been a source of controversy,” he said, slowly and deliberately, “for untold ages, and it is about time it should be definitely decided. It has led to bloodshed in the past, and there is no reason to suppose it will not lead to the same in the future.

“After much thought and consideration, not to mention mental worry and anxiety, it is my opinion, all side issues being swept aside, that a man’s lower limbs, in order to preserve harmony of proportion, should be at least long enough to reach from his body to the ground.”

 

TOO MANY WIDOWS ALREADY.

A Union officer in conversation one day told this story:

“The first week I was with my command there were twenty-four deserters sentenced by court-martial to be shot, and the warrants for their execution were sent to the President to be signed. He refused.

“I went to Washington and had an interview. I said:

“‘Mr. President, unless these men are made an example of, the army itself is in danger. Mercy to the few is cruelty to the many.’

“He replied: ‘Mr. General, there are already too many weeping widows in the United States. For God’s sake, don’t ask me to add to the number, for I won’t do it.’”

 

GOD NEEDED THAT CHURCH.

In the early stages of the war, after several battles had been fought, Union troops seized a church in Alexandria, Va., and used it as a hospital.

A prominent lady of the congregation went to Washington to see Mr. Lincoln and try to get an order for its release.

“Have you applied to the surgeon in charge at Alexandria?” inquired Mr. Lincoln.

“Yes, sir, but I can do nothing with him,” was the reply.

“Well, madam,” said Mr. Lincoln, “that is an end of it, then. We put him there to attend to just such business, and it is reasonable to suppose that he knows better what should be done under the circumstances than I do.”

The lady’s face showed her keen disappointment. In order to learn her sentiment, Mr. Lincoln asked:

“How much would you be willing to subscribe toward building a hospital there?”

She said that the war had depreciated Southern property so much that she could afford to give but little.

“This war is not over yet,” said Mr. Lincoln, “and there will likely be another fight very soon. That church may be very useful in which to house our wounded soldiers. It is my candid opinion that God needs that church for our wounded fellows; so, madam, I can do nothing for you.”

 

THE MAN DOWN SOUTH.

An amusing instance of the President’s preoccupation of mind occurred at one of his levees, when he was shaking hands with a host of visitors passing him in a continuous stream.

An intimate acquaintance received the usual conventional hand-shake and salutation, but perceiving that he was not recognized, kept his ground instead of moving on, and spoke again, when the President, roused to a dim consciousness that something unusual had happened, perceived who stood before him, and, seizing his friend’s hand, shook it again heartily, saying:

“How do you do? How do you do? Excuse me for not noticing you. I was thinking of a man down South.”

“The man down South” was General W. T. Sherman, then on his march to the sea.

 

COULDN’T LET GO THE HOG.

When Governor Curtin of Pennsylvania described the terrible butchery at the battle of Fredericksburg, Mr. Lincoln was almost broken-hearted.

The Governor regretted that his description had so sadly affected the President. He remarked: “I would give all I possess to know how to rescue you from this terrible war.” Then Mr. Lincoln’s wonderful recuperative powers asserted themselves and this marvelous man was himself.

Lincoln’s whole aspect suddenly changed, and he relieved his mind by telling a story.

“This reminds me, Governor,” he said, “of an old farmer out in Illinois that I used to know.

“He took it into his head to go into hog-raising. He sent out to Europe and imported the finest breed of hogs he could buy.

“The prize hog was put in a pen, and the farmer’s two mischievous boys, James and John, were told to be sure not to let it out. But James, the worst of the two, let the brute out the next day. The hog went straight for the boys, and drove John up a tree, then the hog went for the seat of James’ trousers, and the only way the boy could save himself was by holding on to the hog’s tail.

“The hog would not give up his hunt, nor the boy his hold! After they had made a good many circles around the tree, the boy’s courage began to give out, and he shouted to his brother, ‘I say, John, come down, quick, and help me let go this hog!’

“Now, Governor, that is exactly my case. I wish some one would come and help me to let the hog go.”

 

THE CABINET LINCOLN WANTED.

Judge Joseph Gillespie, of Chicago, was a firm friend of Mr. Lincoln, and went to Springfield to see him shortly before his departure for the inauguration.

“It was,” said judge Gillespie, “Lincoln’s Gethsemane. He feared he was not the man for the great position and the great events which confronted him. Untried in national affairs, unversed in international diplomacy, unacquainted with the men who were foremost in the politics of the nation, he groaned when he saw the inevitable War of the Rebellion coming on. It was in humility of spirit that he told me he believed that the American people had made a mistake in selecting him.

“In the course of our conversation he told me if he could select his cabinet from the old bar that had traveled the circuit with him in the early days, he believed he could avoid war or settle it without a battle, even after the fact of secession.

“‘But, Mr. Lincoln,’ said I, ‘those old lawyers are all Democrats.’

“‘I know it,’ was his reply. ‘But I would rather have Democrats whom I know than Republicans I don’t know.’”

 

READY FOR “BUTCHER-DAY.”

Leonard Swett told this eminently characteristic story:

“I remember one day being in his room when Lincoln was sitting at his table with a large pile of papers before him, and after a pleasant talk he turned quite abruptly and said: ‘Get out of the way, Swett; tomorrow is butcher-day, and I must go through these papers and see if I cannot find some excuse to let these poor fellows off.’

“The pile of papers he had were the records of courts-martial of men who on the following day were to be shot.”

 

“THE BAD BIRD AND THE MUDSILL.”

It took quite a long time, as well as the lives of thousands of men, to say nothing of the cost in money, to take Richmond, the Capital City of the Confederacy. In this cartoon, taken from “Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper,” of February 21, 1863, Jeff Davis is sitting upon the Secession eggs in the “Richmond” nest, smiling down upon President Lincoln, who is up to his waist in the Mud of Difficulties.

The President finally waded through the morass, in which he had become immersed, got to the tree, climbed its trunk, reached the limb, upon which the “bad bird” had built its nest, threw the mother out, destroyed the eggs of Secession and then took the nest away with him, leaving the “bad bird” without any home at all.

The “bad bird” had its laugh first, but the last laugh belonged to the “mudsill,” as the cartoonist was pleased to call the President of the United States. It is true that the President got his clothes and hat all covered with mud, but as the job was a dirty one, as well as one that had to be done, the President didn’t care. He was able to get another suit of clothes, as