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Thy banners make tyranny tremble,

When borne by the red, white, and blue, When borne by the red, white, and blue,

When borne by the red, white, and blue; Thy banners make tyranny tremble,

When borne by the red, white, and blue.

When war winged its wide desolation,
And threatened the land to deform,
The ark then of freedom's foundation,
Columbia rode safe through the storm,
With her garlands of vict'ry around her,
When so proudly she bore her brave crew;
With her flag proudly floating before her,
The boast of the red, white, and blue!
The boast of the red, white, and blue!

The boast of the red, white, and blue!
With her flag proudly floating before her,
The boast of the red, white, and blue!

The star-spangled banner bring hither,
O'er Columbia's true sons let it wave,
May the wreaths they have won never wither,
Nor its stars cease to shine on the brave.
May the service united ne'er sever,

But hold to their colors so true;

The army and navy forever,

Three cheers for the red, white, and blue! Three cheers for the red, white, and blue! Three cheers for the red, white, and blue! The army and navy forever,

Three cheers for the red, white, and blue! Thomas à Becket

LINCOLN, THE YOUNG MAN 1

NONE of our presidents, excepting Washington, has been so greatly loved or so highly honored as Lincoln. The two men were very different. Washington was rich and had strong friends; Lincoln was poor and had to depend entirely upon himself; but both were strong, self-reliant, always ready to overcome danger and trouble, and determined to succeed in everything they undertook.

Abraham Lincoln was born on the 12th of February, 1809, in a tumble-down log cabin in the country, about fifty miles south of Louisville, Kentucky. His father was an easy-going sort of person who could neither read nor write, and who never seemed able to take care of his family. His mother was a fine woman, and all that Abraham Lincoln afterwards became, he used to say he owed to her teaching. But the rough life which she had to lead was too hard for her, and she died when "Abe" was only nine years old. The family had then moved from Kentucky to Indiana and were living in a shanty in the woods.

After the mother's death they were for a time desolate, indeed, but the father at length married again, and the second Mrs. Lincoln, who was a strong and able woman, put the home in order once more and took good care of the children. It was at about this time that our story begins.

I. LINCOLN'S FIRST READING

SQUIRE JOSIAH CRAWFORD was seated on the porch of his house in Gentryville, Indiana, one spring afternoon when a small boy called to see him. The Squire was a testy old man, not very fond of boys, and he glanced up over his book, impatient and annoyed at the interruption.

"What do you want here?" he demanded.

The boy had pulled off his raccoon-skin cap and stood holding it in his hand while he eyed the old man.

"They say down at the store, sir," said the boy, "that you

1 From Historic Boyhoods. Copyright, George W. Jacobs & Co.

have a Life of George Washington. I'd like mighty well to read it."

The Squire peered closer at his visitor, surprised out of his annoyance at the words. He looked the boy over, carefully examining his long, lank figure, his tangled mass of black hair, his deep-set eyes, and large mouth. He was evidently from some poor country family. His clothes were homemade, and the trousers were shrunk until they barely reached below his knees.

"What's your name, boy?" asked the Squire.

"Abe Lincoln, son of Tom Lincoln, down on Pigeon Creek." The Squire said to himself: "It must be that Tom Lincoln who, folks say, is a ne'er-do-well and moves from place to place every year because he can't make his farm support him." Then he said aloud to the boy, "What do you want with my Life of Washington?"

"I've been learning about him at school, and I'd like to know more."

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The old man studied the boy in silence for some moments; something about the lad seemed to attract him. Finally he said, "Can I trust you to take good care of the book if I lend it to you?"

"As good care," said the boy, "as if it was made of gold, if you'd only please let me have it for a week."

His eyes were so eager that the old man could not withstand them. "Wait here a minute," he said, and went into the house. When he returned he brought the coveted volume with him, and handed it to the boy. "There it is,” said he; "I'm going to let you have it, but be sure it does n't come to harm down on Pigeon Creek."

The boy, with the precious volume tucked tightly under his arm, went down the single street of Gentryville with the joy of anticipation in his face. He could hardly wait to open

the book and plunge into it. He stopped for a moment at the village store to buy some calico his stepmother had ordered and then struck into the road through the woods that led to his home.

The house which he found at the end of his trail was a very primitive one. The first home Tom Lincoln had built on the Creek when he moved there from Kentucky had been merely a "pole-shack"-four poles driven into the ground with forked ends at the top, other poles laid crosswise in the forks, and a roof of poles built on this square. There had been no chimney, only an open place for a window and another for a door, and strips of bark and patches of clay to keep the rain out. The new house was a little better; it had an attic, and the first floor was divided into several rooms. It was very simple, however; only a big log cabin.

The boy came out of the woods, crossed the clearing about the house, and went in at the door. His stepmother was sitting at the window sewing. He held up the volume for her to see. "I've got it!" he cried. "It's the Life of Washington, and now I'm going to learn all about him." He had barely time to put the book in the woman's hands before his father's voice was heard calling him out of doors. There was work to be done on the farm; the rest of that afternoon Abe was kept busily employed, and as soon as supper was finished his father set him to work mending harness.

At dawn the next day the boy was up and out in the fields, the Life of Washington in one pocket, the other pocket filled with corn dodgers. Unfortunately he could not read and run a straight furrow. When it was noontime he sat under a tree, munching the cakes, and plunged into the first chapter of the book. For half an hour he read and ate, then he had to go on with his work until sundown. When he got home he ate his supper standing up, so that he could read the book by the

candle that stood on the shelf. After supper he lay in front of the fire, still reading and forgetting everything about him.

Gradually the fire burned out, the family went to bed, and young Abe was obliged to go up to his room in the attic. He put the book on a ledge on the wall close to the head of his bed, so that nothing might happen to it. During the night a violent storm rose, and the rain came through a chink in the log walls. When the boy woke he found that the book was a mass of wet paper, the type blurred, and the cover beyond repair. He was heart-broken at the discovery. He could imagine how angry the old Squire would be when he saw the state of the book. Nevertheless, he determined to go to Gentryville at the earliest opportunity and see what he could do to make amends.

The next Sunday morning found a small boy standing on the Squire's porch with the remains of the book in his hand. When the Squire learned what had happened, he spoke his mind freely. He said that Abe did not know how to take care of valuable property, and promised never to lend him another book as long as he lived. The boy faced the music, and when the angry tirade was over, said that he should like to shuck corn for the Squire and in that way pay him the value of the ruined volume. Mr. Crawford accepted the offer and named a price far greater than any possible value of the book; and Abe set to work, spending all his spare time in the next two weeks shucking the corn and working as chore boy. So he finally succeeded in paying for the ruined Life of Washington.

This was only one of many adventures that befell Abraham Lincoln while he was trying to get an education. His mother had taught him to read and write, and ever since he had learned he had longed for books to read.

One day he said to his cousin Dennis Hanks, "Denny, the

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