He rose and stalked out of the cabin.  Then he came back and stuck his head in at the door.

“Mind you, Abe, you forget to do your chores just one time, and that schoolmaster won’t be seeing you again.”

“Come back in and sit down, Tom,” said Sarah.  “Supper is nearly ready.  Besides, Abe has something that needs saying.”

Abe looked at his stepmother in surprise.  Then he looked at his father.  “I’m much obliged, Pa,” he said.

11

[Illustration]

After a few weeks at Master Swaney’s school, Abe had to stop and go to work again.  When he was seventeen, he had a chance to attend another school kept by Azel Dorsey.  Nearly every Friday afternoon there were special exercises and the scholars spoke pieces.  For the final program on the last day of school, the boys had built a platform outside the log schoolhouse.  Parents, brothers and sisters, and friends found seats on fallen logs and on the grass.  They listened proudly as, one by one, the children came forward and each recited a poem or a speech.

Master Dorsey walked to the front of the platform.  He held up his hand for silence.  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we come to the last number on our program.  Twenty-five years ago Thomas Jefferson became President of these United States.  We shall now hear the speech he made that day.  Abraham Lincoln will recite it for us.”

Sarah Lincoln, from under her pink sunbonnet, stole a glance at Tom.  “I hope that Abe does well,” she whispered.

Abe did do well.  He forgot that he was growing too fast, that his hands were too big, and that his trousers were too short.  For a few minutes he made his audience forget it.  Master Dorsey seemed to swell with pride.  If that boy lives, he thought, he is going to be a noted man some day.  Elizabeth Crawford, sitting in the front row, remembered what he had said about being President.  If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that Thomas Jefferson was speaking.  When Abe finished and made an awkward bow, she joined in the hearty burst of applause.

“Do you know where he got that piece?” she asked her husband in a low voice.  “From The Kentucky Preceptor, one of the books you loaned him.  It makes a body feel good to think we helped him.  Look at Mrs. Lincoln!  She couldn’t be more pleased if Abe was her own son.”

Sarah waited to walk home with him.  “I was mighty proud of you today,” she said.  “Why, what’s the matter?  You look mighty down-in-the-mouth for a boy who spoke his piece so well on the last day.”

“I was thinking that this is the last day,” he answered.  “The last day I’ll ever go to school, most likely.”

“Well, you’re seventeen now.”

“Yes, I’m seventeen, and I ain’t had a year’s schooling all told.  I can’t even talk proper.  I forget and say ‘ain’t’ though I know it ain’t—­I mean isn’t right.”

“It seems to me you’re educating yourself with all those books you read,” said Sarah cheerfully.