; there's somethin' in him, if larnin' don't spile him. I have
to warn him against larnin' all the time, but it all goes agin the
grain, and I declare sometimes I do get all out of patience, and clean
discouraged. Why, elder, he even takes a book out when he goes to shuck
corn, and he composes poetry on the wooden shovel, and planes it out
with my plane, and wears the shovel all up. There, now, look
there!--could you stand it?"

Thomas Lincoln took up a large wooden fire-shovel, and held it before
the eyes of the Tunker. On the great bowl of the shovel were penned some
lines in coal.

"What does that read, elder?--I can't tell. I ain't got no larnin' to
spare. What does it read, elder?"

Jasper scanned the writing on the surface of the back of the shovel. The
writing was clear and plain. Mrs. Lincoln came and looked over his
shoulder.

"Writ it himself, likely as not," said she. "Abe writes poetry; he can't
help it sometimes--it's a gift. Read it, elder."

Jasper read slowly:

"'Time! what an empty vapor 'tis!
And days, how swift they are!
Swift as an arrow speed our lives,
Swift as the shooting star.
The present moment--'"

"He didn't finish it, did he, elder? I think it is real pooty--don't
you?"

Mrs. Lincoln turned her broad, earnest face toward the Tunker.

"Real pooty, ain't it?"

"Yes," said Jasper. "He'll be likely to do some great work in life, and
leave it unfinished. It comes to me so."

[Illustration: A QUEER PLACE TO WRITE POETRY.]

"Don't say so, elder. His father don't praise him much, but he's real
good to me, and I hope no evil will ever happen to him. I set lots of
store by Abe. I don't know any difference between him and my own son.
His poor, dead mother, that lies out there all alone under the trees,
knows that I have done by him as if he were my own. You know, the
guardian angels of children see the face of the Father, and I kind o'
think that she is his guardian; and if she is, now, I hain't anything to
reflect upon."

"Only you're spilin' him--that's all," said Mr. Lincoln. "Some women are
so good that they are not good for anything, and between me and Sarah
and his poor, dead mother, Abraham has never had the discipline that he
ought to have had. But Andrew Crawford, the schoolmaster, and Josiah
Crawford, the farmer, did their duty by him. Come, elder, let us go up
to Jones's store, and talk politics a while. Jones, he's a Jackson man.
He sets great sto