“Enough for one stool each now will do. We’ll make some extra ones when we get over our hurry. Four times three are twelve; I shall want twelve.”

“Must they be just alike?”

“No; you can’t find two alike, hardly. If they are too long, I can saw them the right length.”

All this time the work of making the table went on. As Abraham had so large a number of stool-legs to select and bring from the pile, the table was nearly completed when his part of the work was done.

“A scrumptious table, I’m thinkin’,” said Mr. Lincoln, as he surveyed it when it was fairly on its legs. “Pioneer cabinet-work ain’t handsome, but it’s durable.”

“And useful, too,” said his wife. “Two of them wouldn’t come amiss.”

“No; and when I get time we’ll have another. Perhaps Abe can make you one some time. Can’t you make a table, Abe?”

“I can try it.”

“Well, you ought to succeed, now you have seen me do it. You can try your hand at it some day. But now for the stools.”

A good slab was selected, of which four stools could be made; and before night the house was furnished at small expense. A bed, table, and stools constituted the furniture of this pioneer home, in which Abraham spent twelve years of his eventful life.

Abraham occupied the loft above, ascending to his lodgings by the ladder. It was his parlour-chamber, where he slept soundly at night on the loose floor, with no other bedding than blankets. Here, year after year, he reposed nightly with as much content and bliss as we usually find in the mansions of the rich. He had never known better fare than this; and perhaps, at that age, he did not expect a larger share of worldly goods.

By this time the loss of the family by the accident on the Ohio River was nearly made good, except one or two iron kettles, and a little very poor crockery. The puncheon table and stools were replaced by better ones. Through the winter and spring the family had got along as they could, anticipating an improved condition in the autumn.

The pioneer families of that day needed the means of converting their corn into meal. Meal was a staple article of food, without which they could scarcely survive, but there were few grist mills in all the region for many miles around. The nearest was Thompson’s Ferry, where Lincoln landed on his way to Indiana. They were hand-mills, and could grind but little faster than corn could be pounded into meal with mortar and pestle.

“I’ll have a mill of my own,” remarked Mr. Lincoln.

“How?” inquired Abraham.

“You’ll see when it is done. This goin’ eighteen miles to mill don’t pay: we must have one right here.”

“And it won’t take you longer to make one than it would to go to the ferry once and back,” said Mrs. Lincoln.

“It’s an all-day job to go there, and a pretty long day at that.” She knew what kind of a mill he referred to, for she had seen them.