I met Harriet Beecher Stowe the other day, and liked her. We sat in front of my white fireplace and she said she loved a fireplace, and I said I liked one too—that we had a couple of them at home. She said she wrote a lot of her Uncle Tom in front of her fireplace; then she asked me friendly questions about Springfield, the people, the town.
I shared my conviction that writing has a lasting influence. I tried to make her realize what books have meant to me. I am afraid I reminisced too much about what I had read. She nodded very pleasantly and did not say much; wrapped in a blue shawl she seemed more like a tired housewife than a person dedicated to writing and the rights of man.
I told her how I used to do my three r’s before our cabin fireplace. Silence came between us. In spite of myself I forgot my guest; I could see a long road in summertime; I was walking along that road; I had borrowed Weems and stopped to read; I sat down on a culvert; a frog appeared; there were trees, fields of grass, yet I was in the midst of history.
When she rose to say “good-bye” I was startled.
2
January 4th, 1864
| T |
oday I visited the stables and talked to Old Abe. As usual, he was pleased to see me. I offered him a handful of oats, and he bobbed his head. The sun was warm in the stall. I stood by, as Abe munched. I could believe that he knew I was thanking him for my escape yesterday.
My hat is lying on my bed—a bullet hole right through the crown. A good hat. If Abe hadn’t bolted someone might have shot again. We were lucky it was growing dark, Abe and I.