“What makes you think so?”

“He’s as likely to die as mother, ain’t he? and he may be dead when we don’t know it, the same as she’s dead when he don’t know it.”

“Well, there’s somethin’ in that,” answered his father; “but we’ll see how you can make out writin’ a letter.”

Pen and paper were provided, and Mr. Lincoln proceeded to dictate the letter. He directed him to write about the death of Mrs. Lincoln, when it occurred, and under what circumstances, and to invite him to visit them, and preach a funeral sermon. He also gave a description of their new home, and their journey thither, and wrote of their future prospects.

“Now read it over,” said Mr. Lincoln.

“The whole of it?”

“Of course; I want to hear it all. I may think of somethin’ else by that time.”

Abraham commenced to read it, while his father sat the very picture of satisfaction. There was genuine happiness to him in having his son prepared to write a letter. Never before had there been a member of his family who could perform this feat. It was a memorable event to him.

“See how much it is wuth to be able to write,” said he, as Abraham finished reading the letter. “It’s wuth ten times as much as it cost to be able to write only that one letter.”

“It ain’t much work to learn to write,” said Abraham; “I’d work as hard again for it before I’d give it up.”

“You’d have to give it up if you was knocked about as I was when a boy.”

“I know that.”

“You don’t know it as I do; and I hope you never will. But it’s wuth more than the best farm to know how to write a letter as well as that.”

“I shall write one better than that yet,” said Abraham. “But how long will it take for the letter to go to Parson Elkins?”

“That’s more than I can tell; but it will go there some time, and I hope it will bring him here.”

“He won’t want to come so far as this,” suggested Abraham.

“It ain’t so far for him as it was for us.”

“Why ain’t it?”

“Because he lives nearer the line of Indiana than we did. It ain’t more than seventy-five miles for him to come, and he often rides as far as that.”

The letter went on its errand, and Abraham was impatient to learn the result. On the whole, it was rather an important event in his young life,—the writing of that first letter. Was it strange if he should query whether it would reach the good minister to whom it was sent? Would it be strange if the writing of it proved one of the happy influences that started him off upon a career of usefulness and fame? We shall see.

Mr. Lincoln had much to say to his neighbours about the letter that his son had written, and they had much to say to him. It was considered remarkable for a boy of his age to do such a thing. Not one quarter of the adults in all that region could write; and this fact rendered the ability of the boy in this regard