A MAN CHILD IS BORN
(February 12th, 1809. Log Hut near Hodgenville, Ky.)
(A neighbor woman is talking)
The wind blows through the chinks—it’s snowing too,
Tom piles the logs on, but that door is loose.
An earthen floor is always cold. You’re warm.
I’m glad I brought a kiverlid along,
An extra one comes handy at this time.
You are all right—you had an easy time,
Considering this baby, big and long.
He’s very long, will be a tall man, too,
A hunter and a chopper, Indian fighter,
Lord, who knows what, a big man in the country,
A preacher, congressman or senator,
A president—who knows? God blesses you
To give you such a son. He nurses well.
Don’t let him have too much at first. You see
That single window gives too little light
To show you what he’s like. He looks a little
Like Nancy Shipley Hanks, your mother, perhaps
A little like your aunt, old Mary Lincoln.
Since you and Tom are cousins, it may be
This boy will be a mixture, but if folks
Resemble animals, the traits of you
Will be made stronger in this child, because
You two are cousins.
You will be up to see
What he looks like, in just a week or so.
Perhaps when next the flames mount in the fire-place
The light will show you. Have you named him yet—
Tom likes the name of Abraham—well, that’s good—
You’ve chosen that!
I thought I heard a step—
Who do you think is coming? Dennis Hanks!
He’s come to see his cousin Abraham.
Good mornin’, Dennis! come into the fire—
I’ll you see your cousin Abraham—
A big, long baby—quick! and shut the door,
The room is none too warm, the wind is blowing—
Tom’s gone for logs again! Here, I’ll raise up
The kiverlid and let you see—look here!
You think he’s homely! Pretty is, you know,
As pretty does—but see how big and long!
In fifteen years he’ll make you up and come
To beat him wrestling, I will bet a coon’s skin.
Now you may kiss him; in a little bit
I’ll let you hold him by the fire. The pot
Is on for dinner, we are having squirrel
And hominy for dinner—you can stay.
Now clear out, Dennis—I must do some things—
Open the door for Tom, he’s coming there
With logs to mend the fire!
RICHARD BOOTH TO HIS SON JUNIUS BRUTUS
(London, December 13th, 1813.)
So you’re to play Campillo, all in spite
Of my commands, at Deptford? Here’s the bill
Found in your pocket. You are seventeen,
Too young for this adventure in the world.
What will you be, a strolling vagabond,
Smelling of grease, impoverished, set apart
From stable folk by this, your wandering art?
And just to think I named you Junius Brutus,
After the great republican who slew
The Roman tyrant Cæsar—I myself
A worshipper of Liberty all my life,
And choosing such a patronym for you
To dedicate you to the faith in me.
Now you would leave this dignity to speak
Mimetic words, and act. I beg of you,
Listen, my boy, before it is too late,
And let me tell my story to you now,
That you may profit by the things I’ve lived....
You see that face of Washington, hung up
There on the wall where every entering eye
Must mark it? You remember that I ask,
Enforce respect to Washington and make
The passer bow his head—well, listen now: