they? Dark, dark days! You
never saw such. They took up my father's body--what a sight!--and bore
it into the cabin. You should have seen my poor mother then. What was to
help us? Only the blue heavens were left us then. What could we do? My
mother and five children alone in the wilderness full of savages!

"Preacher, I have seen dark days! I have known what it was to be poor
and supperless and friendless; but I never sought revenge on the
Indians, though Mordecai did. I'm glad that you're going to preach among
them. I couldn't do it, with such memories as mine, perhaps; but I'm
glad you can, 'n' I hope that you will go and do them good. Heaven bless
those who seek to do good in this sinful world--"

"Abraham, are the potatoes done?" said a gentle voice.

"Yes, mother."

"Then pass them 'round. Give the preacher one first; then your father. I
do not care for any."

The tall boy passed the roasted potatoes around as directed. Jasper ate
his potato in silence. The stories of the hardships of this forest
family had filled his heart with sympathy, and Thomas Lincoln had
_acted_ the stories that he told in such a way as to leave a most vivid
impression on his mind.

"These stories make you sad," said Mrs. Lincoln to Jasper. "They are
heart-rendin', and I sometimes think it is almost wrong to tell them. Do
you think it is right to tell a story that awakens hard and rebellious
feelin's? 'Evil communications corrupt good manners,' the Good Book
says. I sometimes wish that folks would tell only stories that are good,
and make one the better for hearin'--parables like."

"My heart feels for you all," said Jasper. "I feel for everybody. This
life is all new to me."

"Let us have something more cheerful now," said Mrs. Lincoln.--"Abraham,
recite to the preacher a piece from the English Reader."

"Which one, mother?"

"The Hermit--how would that do? I don't know much about poetry, but
Abraham does. He makes it up. It is a queer turn of mind he has. He
learns all the poetry that he can find, and makes it up himself out of
his own head. He's got poetry in him, though he don't look so. How he
ever does it, puzzles me. His mother was poetic like. It is a gift, like
grace. Where do you suppose it comes from, and what will he ever do with
it? He ain't like other boys. He's kind o' peculiar some.--Come,
Abraham, recite to us The Hermit. It is a proper good piece."

The tall boy came out of "the flue" and stood before the dying