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“That thing’ll weigh from seven to eight hundred pounds,” said he. “I reckon you’re the stoutest man in this part o’ the state an’ I’m quite a man myself. I’ve lifted a barrel o’ whisky and put my mouth to the bung hole. I never drink it.”

“Say,” he added as he sat down and began eating a doughnut. “If you ever hit anybody take a sledge hammer or a crowbar. It wouldn’t be decent to use your fist.”

“Don’t talk when you’ve got food in your mouth,” said Joe who seemed to have acquired a sense of responsibility for the manners of Abe.

“I reckon you’re right,” Abe laughed. “A man’s ideas ought not to be mingled with cheese and doughnuts.”

“Once in a while I like to try myself in a lift,” said Samson. “It feels good. I don’t do it to show off. I know there’s a good many men stouter than I be. I guess you’re one of ’em.”

“No, I’m too stretched out–my neck is too far from the ground,” Abe answered. “I’m like a crowbar. If I can get my big toe or my fingers under anything I can pry some.”

After luncheon he took off his shoes and socks.

“When I’m working hard I always try to give my feet a rest and my brain a little work at noontime,” he remarked. “My brain is so far behind the procession I have to keep putting the gad on it. Give me twenty minutes of Kirkham and I’ll be with you again.”

He lay down on his back under a tree with his book in hand and his feet resting on the tree trunk well above him. Soon he was up and at work again.

* * * * *

When they were getting ready to go home that afternoon Joe got into a great hurry to see his mother. It seemed to him that ages had elapsed since he had seen her–a conviction which led to noisy tears.

Abe knelt before him and comforted the boy. Then he wrapped him in his jacket and swung him in the air and started for home with Joe astride his neck.

Samson says in his diary: “His tender play with the little lad gave me another look at the man Lincoln.”

“Some one proposed once that we should call that stream the Minnehaha,” said Abe as he walked along. “After this Joe and I are going to call it the Minneboohoo.”

The women of the little village had met at a quilting party at ten o’clock with Mrs. Martin Waddell. There Sarah had had a seat at the frame and heard all the gossip of the countryside. . . .

So the day passed with them and was interrupted by the noisy entrance of Joe, soon after candlelight, who climbed on the back of his mother’s chair and kissed her and in breathless eagerness began to relate the history of his own day.

That ended the quilting party and Sarah and Mrs. Rutledge and her daughter Ann joined Samson and Abe and Harry Needles who were waiting outside and walked to the tavern with them.

John McNeil, whom the Traylors had met on the road near Niagara Falls and who had shared their camp with them, arrived on the stage that evening. . . . Abe came in, soon after eight o’clock, and was introduced to the stranger. All noted the contrast between the two young men as they greeted each other. Abe sat down for a few minutes and looked sadly into the fire but said nothing. He rose presently, excused himself and went away.

Soon Samson followed him. Over at Offut’s store he did not find Abe, but Bill Berry was drawing liquor from the spigot of a barrel set on blocks in a shed connected with the rear end of the store and serving it to a number of hilarious young Irishmen. The young men asked Samson to join them.

“No, thank you. I never touch it,” he said.