. She at once stated
the case to him. He pondered the question a few moments before
answering.

"Mother, I am afraid your plan will not work."

"But it _will_ work, if you will only determine that it _shall_ work."

"It is breaking in on the regular custom," he mildly replied.

"But you forget, father, these are war times, and old customs can be
done away with for the once. The idea is economical, you must admit."

"Yes, mother, but we must think of something besides economy."

"I do think of something else. Public receptions are more democratic
than stupid state dinners--are more in keeping with the spirit of the
institutions of our country, as you would say if called upon to make a
stump speech. There are a great many strangers in the city, foreigners
and others, whom we can entertain at our receptions, but whom we cannot
invite to our dinners."

"I believe you are right, mother. You argue the point well. I think that
we shall have to decide on the receptions."

So the day was carried. The question was decided, and arrangements were
made for the first reception. It now was January, and cards were issued
for February.

The children, Tad and Willie, were constantly receiving presents. Willie
was so delighted with a little pony, that he insisted on riding it every
day. The weather was changeable, and exposure resulted in a severe cold,
which deepened into fever. He was very sick, and I was summoned to his
bedside. It was sad to see the poor boy suffer. Always of a delicate
constitution, he could not resist the strong inroads of disease. The
days dragged wearily by, and he grew weaker and more shadow-like. He was
his mother's favorite child, and she doted on him. It grieved her heart
sorely to see him suffer. When able to be about, he was almost
constantly by her side. When I would go in her room, almost always I
found blue-eyed Willie there, reading from an open book, or curled up in
a chair with pencil and paper in hand. He had decidedly a literary
taste, and was a studious boy. A short time before his death he wrote
this simple little poem:

"WASHINGTON, D. C., October 30, 1861.

DEAR SIR:--I enclose you my first attempt at poetry.

"Yours truly,
"WM. W. LINCOLN.

"_To the Editor of the National Republican._"

LINES ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL EDWARD BAKER.

THERE was no patriot like Baker,
So noble and so true;
He fell as a soldier on the field,
His face to the