Yet there was “something peculiarsome about Abe,” as Dennis Hanks once said.  He would be laughing one minute; the next minute he would look solemn and sad.  He would walk along the narrow forest trails, a faraway look in his eyes.  Someone would say “Howdy, Abe.”  Then he would grin and start “cracking jokes” again.

Although he worked such long hours, Abe still found time to read.  He sat up late and got up early in the morning, and Sarah made the children keep quiet when he wanted to study.  Sometimes he took a book to work with him.  Instead of talking to the other farm hands at noon, he’d go off by himself and read a few pages while he ate his dinner.  People for miles around loaned him books.  Sometimes he walked fifteen miles to Rockport, the county seat, to borrow books from John Pitcher, the town lawyer.

“Everything I want to know is in books,” he told Dennis.  “My best friend is a man who can give me a book I ain’t read.”

Late one afternoon, about two years after Sarah had arrived, Abe came home with a new book under his arm.  Tom and Dennis had joined several of their neighbors in a big bear hunt and planned to be gone for several days.  Abe planned to read—­and read—­and read.

“What do you think, Mamma?” he asked.  “I have a chance to read the Declaration of Independence.”

Sarah smiled into his eager eyes.  “Now isn’t that nice?”

He showed her the book.  It belonged to David Turnham, the constable.  Mr. Turnham had said that Abe might borrow it for several days, if he promised to be careful.

“What is it about?” Sarah asked.

“It has the laws of Indiana in it, and it tells how the government of our country was started.”  Abe’s voice took on a new tone of excitement.  “It has the Declaration of Independence in it and the Constitution, too.”

He pulled a stool up to the fire and began to read.  There was no sound in the little cabin except the steady click-click of Sarah’s knitting needles.  She glanced at him now and then.  This tall, awkward boy had become very dear to her.  As dear as her own children, perhaps even dearer, but he was harder to understand.  No matter how much he learned, he wanted to learn more.  He was always hungry, hungry for knowledge—­not hungry for bacon and cornbread the way Johnny was.  The idea made her chuckle.

Abe did not hear.  He laid the book on his knee and stared into the flames.  His lips were moving, although he made no sound.

“What are you saying to yourself?” Sarah asked.  “You look so far away.”

“Why, Mamma.”  Abe looked up with a start.  “I was just recollecting some of the words out of the Declaration of Independence.  It says all men are created equal.”

“You don’t mean to tell me!” Sarah was pleased because Abe was.

“I’m going to learn as much of the Declaration as I can by heart, before I take the book back,” he said.  “That way I can always keep the words.”