He sank to the
ground, slipped his arm around the dog's neck, and sobbed aloud.
He wrote a tear stained letter to the only parson he knew. It was his
first historic record and he signed his name in bold, well rounded
letters--"A. LINCOLN." Three months later the faithful old man came in
answer to his request and preached her funeral sermon. Something in the
lad's wistful eyes that day fired him with eloquence. Through all life
the words rang with strange solemn power in the Boy's heart:
"O Death, where is thy sting! O grave, where is thy victory! Blessed are
they that die in the Lord! Death is not the chill shadow of the
night--but the grey light of the dawn--the dawn of a new eternal day.
Lift up your eyes and see its beauty. Open your ears and hear the stir
of its wondrous life!"
When the last friend had gone, the forlorn little figure stood beside
the grave alone. There was a wistful smile on his lips as he slowly
whispered:
"I'll not forget, Ma, dear--I'll not forget. I'll live for you."
Nor did he forget. In her slender figure a new force had appeared in
human history. The peasant woman of the old world has ever taught her
child contentment with his lot. And patient millions beyond the seas
bend their backs without a murmur to the task their fathers bore three
thousand years ago.
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