ency. The law and the constitution are like a child's pants. They've
got to be made wider and longer as the child grows so as to fit him. If
they're kept too tight, he'll burst them; and if you're in a hurry and
make them too big all at once, they'll trip him up."

"Agreed," said Stanton, "but the fashion and the fabric should be kept
of the same good American pattern."

The long man ran a hand through his thatch of hair.

"There's only one fashion in pants--to make them comfortable. And some
day that boy is going to grow so big you won't be able to make the old
ones do and he'll have to get a new pair. If he's living on a farm he'll
want the same kind of good working pants, but for all that they'll have
to be new made."

Stanton laughed with some irritation

"I hate arguing in parables, for in the nature of things they can't
be exact. That's a mistake you westerners make. The law must change in
detail with changing conditions, but its principles cannot alter, and
the respect for these principles is our only safeguard against relapse
into savagery. Take slavery. There are fools in the east who would
abolish it by act of Congress. For myself I do not love the system,
but I love anarchy and injustice less, and if you abolish slavery you
abolish also every-right of legal property, and that means chaos and
barbarism. A free people such as ours cannot thus put the knife to their
throat. If we were the serfs of a monarchy, accustomed to bow before
the bidding of a king, it might be different, but a republic cannot do
injustice to one section of its citizens without destroying itself."

Lincoln had not taken his eyes from the stove. He seemed to be seeing
things in the fire, for he smiled to himself.

"Well," he drawled, "I reckon that some day we may have to find some
sort of a king. The new pants have got to be made."

Mr. Stanton shrugged his shoulders, and the other, quick to detect
annoyance, scrambled to his feet and stood looking down from his great
height at his dapper antagonist. A kindly quizzical smile lit his homely
face. "We'll quit arguing, Mr. Stanton, for I admit I'm afraid of
you. You're some years younger than me, but I expect you would have me
convinced on your side if we went on. And maybe I'd convince you too,
and then we'd be like old Jim Fletcher at New Salem. You'll have heard
about Jim. He had a mighty quarrel with his neighbour about a hog, Jim
alleging it was one of his lot and the neighbour