w the rest. There, now. They're
livin' there yet. Just like poetry--wasn't it, now?"

"Very extraordinary," said the Tunker, "very! I never read a novel like
that. Very extraordinary!"

A tall, lank, wiry boy came up to the door.

"Abe, I do declare!" said Aunt Olive. "Come in. I'm makin' doughnuts,
and you sha'n't have one of them. I make Scriptur' doughnuts, and the
Scriptur' says if a man spends his time porin' over books, of which
there is no end, neither shall he eat, or somethin' like that--now don't
it, elder?--But seein' it's you, Abe, and you are a pretty good boy,
after all, when people are in trouble, and sick and such, I'll make you
an elephant. There ain't any elephants in Injiany."

Aunt Olive cut a piece of doughnut dough in the shape of a picture-book
elephant and tossed it into the fat. It swelled up to enormous
proportions, and when she scooped it out with a ladle it was, for a
doughnut, an elephant indeed.

"Now, Abe, there's your elephant.--And, elder, here's a whole pan full
of twisted doughnuts. You said that you were goin' to meet Black Hawk.
Where does he live? Tell us all about him."

"I will do so, my good woman," said Jasper. "I want you to be interested
in my Indian missions. When I come this way again, I shall be likely to
bring with me an Indian guide, an uncommon boy, I am told. You shall
hear my story."

CHAPTER VI.

JASPER GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF HIS VISIT TO BLACK HAWK.--AUNT INDIANA'S WIG.

Aunt Indiana, Jasper, John Hanks, and young Abraham Lincoln sat between
the dying logs in the great fireplace and the open door. The company was
after a little time increased for Thomas Lincoln came slowly into the
clearing, and saying, "How-dy?" and "The top of the day to ye all," sat
down in the sunshine on the log step; and soon after came Dennis Hanks
and dropped down on a puncheon.

"I think that you are misled," said Jasper, "when you say that Black
Hawk was born at Kaskaskia. If I remember rightly, he said to me: 'I was
born in this Sac village. Here I spent my youth; my fathers' graves are
here, and the graves of my children, and here where I was born I wish to
die.' Rock Island, as the northern islands, rapids, and bluffs of the
Mississippi are called, is a very beautiful place. Black Hawk clings to
the spot as to his life. 'I love to look down,' he said, 'upon the big
rivers, shady groves, and green prairies from the graves of my fathers,'
and I do not wonder at this feelin