"Where is Abraham?" asked Jasper.
"He's gone to the store for the evenin'. He's been keepin' store for Jones, in Gentryville, and he spends his evenin's there. There ain't many places to go to around here, and Abe he's turned the store into a kind of debatin' club. He speaks pieces there. There's goin' to be a debate there to-night. He's great on debatin'. I do hope you'll go. The subject of the debate to-night is, 'Which has the greater cause for complaint, the negro or the Indian?'"
"I'm goin' over to the store to-night myself, elder," said Thomas Lincoln. "You must go along with me and hear Abraham talk, and then come back and spend the night here. The old woman has been hopin' that you would come. It pleased her mightily, what you said good about Abraham when you was here last. She sets her eyes by Abraham, and he does by her. Abraham and I don't get along none too well. The fact is, he all runs to books, and is kind o' queer. He takes after his mother's folks—they all had houses in the air, and lived in 'em. Abe might make somethin'; there's somethin' in him, if larnin' don't spile him. I have to warn him against larnin' all the time, but it all goes agin the grain, and I declare sometimes I do get all out of patience, and clean discouraged. Why, elder, he even takes a book out when he goes to shuck corn, and he composes poetry on the wooden shovel, and planes it out with my plane, and wears the shovel all up. There, now, look there!—could you stand it?"
Thomas Lincoln took up a large wooden fire-shovel, and held it before the eyes of the Tunker. On the great bowl of the shovel were penned some lines in coal.
"What does that read, elder?—I can't tell. I ain't got no larnin' to spare. What does it read, elder?"
Jasper scanned the writing on the surface of the back of the shovel. The writing was clear and plain. Mrs. Lincoln came and looked over his shoulder.
"Writ it himself, likely as not," said she. "Abe writes poetry; he can't help it sometimes—it's a gift. Read it, elder."
Jasper read slowly:
"'Time! what an empty vapor 'tis!
And days, how swift they are!
Swift as an arrow speed our lives,
Swift as the shooting star.
The present moment—'"
"He didn't finish it, did he, elder? I think it is real pooty—don't you?"