over,
Was all in vain?

O soul obscure,
Whose wings life bound,
And soft death folded
Under the ground.

Wilding lady,
Still and true,
Who gave us Lincoln
And never knew:

To you at last
Our praise, our tears,
Love and a song
Through the nation's years.

Mother of Lincoln,
Our tears, our praise;
A battle-flag
And the victor's bays!

[Illustration: THE RAIL SPLITTER

From the "Footprints of Abraham Lincoln"]

LINCOLN THE LABORER

_From an Horatian Ode by Richard Henry Stoddard_

A laboring man with horny hands,
Who swung the axe, who tilled the lands,
Who shrank from nothing new,
But did as poor men do.

One of the people. Born to be
Their curious epitome,
To share, yet rise above,
Their shifting hate and love.

Common his mind, it seemed so then,
His thoughts the thoughts of other men,
Plain were his words, and poor--
But now they will endure.

No hasty fool of stubborn will,
But prudent, cautious, still--
Who, since his work was good,
Would do it as he could.

No hero, this, of Roman mold--
Nor like our stately sires of old.
Perhaps he was not great--
But he preserved the state.

O, honest face, which all men knew,
O, tender heart, but known to few--
O, wonder of the age,
Cut off by tragic rage.

[Illustration: "THE BOY LINCOLN"

By Eastman Johnson]

James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, Indiana, about 1852. He
was engaged in various pursuits until 1875, when he began to
contribute verses of poetry to local papers in the Western district
which gained wide popularity for him. His published works i