He could fish and hunt. He was not
afraid of Indians. He could catch hold of a sycamore tree on the edge
of the brook outside the cabin, and swing himself way across the
brook.
But little Abe's father was not satisfied with his boy's knowing only
how to live an outdoor life. He could not read himself, but it was his
great longing that little Abe should have this knowledge.
It was when Abe was seven years old and his sister, Sarah, a year
younger, that their father spoke about this.
"I want the children to learn to read," he said. "There is a man in a
shanty down the road who knows how. He can't write, but he could teach
Abe and Sarah their letters."
So the two little folks started off, Abe in a linsey-woolsey suit,
buckskin breeches, and a coonskin cap. It was a long walk, and the
children had only hoe cake to carry for their dinner, but they were
strong and sturdy. They were clever, too. In a few weeks, Abe knew as
much as the school-master. Then he began to wish, oh, so much, that he
had some books to read at home in the cabin.
There was a Bible at home, an old catechism, and a spelling book. Abe
read these over and over again in the dim candle light of the cabin.
One day his father surprised him. He brought him a new book. It was
Pilgrim's Progress, the most wonderful story, little Abe thought, that
he had ever read.
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