mself way across the
brook.

But little Abe's father was not satisfied with his boy's knowing only
how to live an outdoor life. He could not read himself, but it was his
great longing that little Abe should have this knowledge.

It was when Abe was seven years old and his sister, Sarah, a year
younger, that their father spoke about this.

"I want the children to learn to read," he said. "There is a man in a
shanty down the road who knows how. He can't write, but he could teach
Abe and Sarah their letters."

So the two little folks started off, Abe in a linsey-woolsey suit,
buckskin breeches, and a coonskin cap. It was a long walk, and the
children had only hoe cake to carry for their dinner, but they were
strong and sturdy. They were clever, too. In a few weeks, Abe knew as
much as the school-master. Then he began to wish, oh, so much, that he
had some books to read at home in the cabin.

There was a Bible at home, an old catechism, and a spelling book. Abe
read these over and over again in the dim candle light of the cabin.
One day his father surprised him. He brought him a new book. It was
Pilgrim's Progress, the most wonderful story, little Abe thought, that
he had ever read. It was only a borrowed book; books cost a very great
deal of money in those long-ago days, more than Mr. Lincoln could pay.
He was able to borrow more, though. Little Abe read AEsop's fables,
and he liked them so much that he learned the stories by heart. He
could tell the fable of the Hare and the Tortoise, the Crow and the
Pitcher, and many others.

It made Abe so happy to have these books that he made up his mind to
try to do something, in return, to surprise his father. It was spring
of the year and Abe and his father were plowing, turning up the soft
brown earth, ready for the new seeds. Mr. Lincoln missed his boy. He
looked back, and what do you think he saw? Abe had spelled with a
stick, in the soft brown earth, his own name. His father had not known
that he could write, but there were the letters as plainly outlined as
if they had been in a copy book: ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

He had taught himself to write by practising in the snow, and making
letters on the logs of the cabin walls with pieces of charcoal.

A great deal began to happen now to Abraham, although he was only
eight years old. His father decided to travel a hundred miles from
Kentucky to a new farm in Indiana to see if he might not be a little
more prosperous. There were n