the old subject, his disapproval of his son's wasting his
time in study. He said:

"I s'pose Abe's still a-foolin' hisself with eddication. I tried to stop
it, but he's got that fool _idee_ in his head an' it can't be got out.
Now I haint got no eddication, but I git along better than if I had."

Not long after this, in 1851, Abraham learned that his father was very
ill. As he could not leave Springfield then, he wrote to his stepbrother
(for Thomas Lincoln could not read) the following comforting letter to
be read to his father:

"I sincerely hope father may recover his health; but at all events, tell
him to remember to call upon and confide in our great and merciful
Maker, who will not turn away from him in any extremity. He notes the
fall of the sparrow, and numbers the hairs of our heads, and He will not
forget the dying man who puts his trust in Him. Say to him that, if we
could meet now, it is doubtful whether it would be more painful than
pleasant, but if it is his lot to go now, he will soon have a joyful
meeting with the loved ones gone before, and where the rest of us,
through the mercy of God, hope ere long to join them."

Thomas Lincoln died that year, at the age of seventy-three.

A KIND BUT MASTERFUL LETTER TO HIS STEPBROTHER

After his father's death Abraham Lincoln had, on several occasions, to
protect his stepmother against the schemes of her own lazy,
good-for-nothing son. Here is one of the letters written, at this time,
to his stepbrother, John Johnston:

"DEAR BROTHER: I hear that you were anxious to sell the land where you
live, and move to Missouri. What can you do in Missouri better than
here? Is the land any richer? Can you there, any more than here, raise
corn and wheat and oats without work? Will anybody there, any more than
here, do your work for you? If you intend to go to work, there is no
better place than right where you are; if you do not intend to go to
work, you cannot get along anywhere. Squirming and crawling about from
place to place can do no good. You have raised no crop this year, and
what you really want is to sell the land, get the money and spend it.
Part with the land you have and, my life upon it, you will never own a
spot big enough to bury you in. Half you will get for the land you will
spend in moving to Missouri, and the other half you will eat and drink
and wear out, and no foot of land will be bought.

"Now, I feel that it is my duty to have no hand in such