, during the cold, stormy days, when he could not
leave the camp, his mother taught him how to write.

In the spring the new house was raised. It was only a hewed log house,
with one room below and a loft above. But it was so much better than the
old cabin in Kentucky that it seemed like a palace.

The family had become so tired of living in the "camp," that they moved
into the new house before the floor was laid, or any door hung at the
doorway.

Then came the plowing and the planting and the hoeing. Everybody was
busy from daylight to dark. There were so many trees and stumps that
there was but little room for the corn to grow.

The summer passed, and autumn came. Then the poor mother's strength gave
out. She could no longer go about her household duties. She had to
depend more and more upon the help that her children could give her.

At length she became too feeble to leave her bed. She called her boy to
her side. She put her arms about him and said: "Abraham, I am going away
from you, and you will never see me again. I know that you will always
be good and kind to your sister and father. Try to live as I have taught
you, and to love your heavenly Father."

On the 5th of October she fell asleep, never to wake again.

Under a big sycamore tree, half a mile from the house, the neighbors dug
the grave for the mother of Abraham Lincoln. And there they buried her
in silence and great sorrow.

There was no minister there to conduct religious services. In all that
new country there was no church; and no holy man could be found to speak
words of comfort and hope to the grieving ones around the grave.

But the boy, Abraham, remembered a traveling preacher, whom they had
known in Kentucky. The name of this preacher was David Elkin. If he
would only come!

And so, after all was over, the lad sat down and wrote a letter to David
Elkin. He was only a child nine years old, but he believed that the good
man would remember his poor mother, and come.

It was no easy task to write a letter. Paper and ink were not things of
common use, as they are with us. A pen had to be made from the quill of
a goose.

But at last the letter was finished and sent away. How it was carried I
do not know; for the mails were few and far between in those days, and
postage was very high. It is more than likely that some friend, who was
going into Kentucky, undertook to have it finally handed to the good
preacher.

Months passed. The leaves