ait
here a minute," he said, and went into the house. When he returned he
brought the coveted volume with him, and handed it to the boy. "There it
is," said he: "I'm going to let you have it, but be sure it doesn't come
to harm down on Pidgeon Creek."

The boy, with the precious volume tucked tightly under his arm, went
down the single street of Gentryville with the joy of anticipation in
his face. He could hardly wait to open the book and plunge into it. He
stopped for a moment at the village store to buy some calico his
stepmother had ordered, and then struck into the road through the woods
that led to his home.

The house which he found at the end of his trail was a very primitive
one. The first home Tom Lincoln had built on the Creek when he moved
there from Kentucky had been merely a "pole-shack," four poles driven
into the ground with forked ends at the top, other poles laid crosswise
in the forks, and a roof of poles built on this square. There had been
no chimney, only an open place for a window, and another for a door, and
strips of bark and patches of clay to keep the rain out. The new house
was a little better, it had an attic, and the first floor was divided
into several rooms. It was very simple, however; in reality only a big
log-cabin.

The boy came out of the woods, crossed the clearing about the house, and
went in at the door. His stepmother was sitting at the window sewing. He
held up the volume for her to see. "I've got it!" he cried. "It's the
'Life of Washington,' and now I'm goin' to learn all about him." He had
barely time to put the book in the woman's hands before his father's
voice was heard calling him out-of-doors. There was work to be done on
the farm, and the rest of that afternoon Abe was kept busily employed,
and as soon as supper was finished his father set him to work mending
harness.

At dawn the next day the boy was up and out in the fields, the "Life of
Washington" in one pocket, the other pocket filled with corn dodgers.
Unfortunately he could not read and run a straight furrow. When it was
noontime he sat under a tree, munching the cakes, and plunged into the
first chapter of the book. For half an hour he read and ate, then he had
to go on with his work until sundown. When he got home he had his supper
standing up so that he could read the book by the candle that stood on
the shelf. After supper he lay in front of the fire, still reading, and
forgetting everything about him.