t, in the Summer of 1784, the tragic day dawned upon the
Lincolns which has come to many a pioneer family in Kentucky and
elsewhere. His son Thomas told this story to his children:

HOW INDIANS KILLED "GRANDFATHER LINCOLN"

"My father--your grandfather, Abraham Lincoln--come over the mountains
from Virginia with his cousin, Dan'l Boone. He was rich for them times,
as he had property worth seventeen thousand dollars; but Mr. Boone he
told Father he could make a good deal more by trappin' and tradin' with
the Injuns for valuable pelts, or fur skins.

"You know, Dan'l Boone he had lived among the Injuns. He was a sure shot
with the rifle so's he could beat the redskins at their own game. They
took him a prisoner oncet, and instead of killin' him, they was about
ready to make him chief--he pretended all the while as how he'd like
that--when he got away from 'em. He was such a good fellow that them
Injuns admired his shrewdness, and they let him do about what he
pleased. So he thought they'd let Father alone.

"Well, your grandfather was a Quaker, you see, and believed in treatin'
them red devils well--like William Penn done, you know. He was a man for
peace and quiet, and everything was goin' smooth with the tribes of what
we called the Beargrass Country, till one day, when he and my brothers,
Mordecai--'Mord' was a big fellow for his age--and Josiah, a few years
younger--was out in the clearin' with the oxen, haulin' logs down to the
crick. I went along too, but I didn't help much--for I was only six.

"Young as I was, I remember what happened that day like it was only
yesterday. It come like a bolt out of the blue. We see Father drop like
he was shot--for he _was_ shot! Then I heard the crack of a rifle and I
saw a puff of smoke floatin' out o' the bushes.

"Injuns!" gasps Mord, and starts on the run for the house--to get his
gun. Josiah, he starts right off in the opposite direction to the
Beargrass fort--we called it a fort, but it was nothin' but a stockade.
The way we boys scattered was like a brood o' young turkeys, or
pa'tridges, strikin' for cover when the old one is shot. I knowed I'd
ought to run too, but I didn't want to leave my father layin' there on
the ground. Seemed like I'd ought to woke him up so he could run too.
Yet I didn't feel like touchin' him. I think I must 'a' knowed he was
dead.

"While I was standin' still, starin' like the oxen, not knowin' what to
do, a big Injun come out o' the brus