them the next day, when they had all got still, which of them broke it, and Abe answered promptly, “I did it.”

“Just like him,” said his father.

“I said, ‘How happened that, Abe?’

“I didn’t mean to do it,” he replied. “I hung on it and it broke. I wouldn’t have done it if I had thought it would break.”

“I dare say he spoke the truth,” said his father.

“I have no doubt of it; but few boys would own up like that. Most boys would try to conceal what they had done, and wouldn’t own it till they were obliged to.”

“That’s so; and I’ve thought that it might be owing a little to the Life of Washington that he read some time ago. He seemed to think a sight of his owning up that he cut the cherry tree with his new hatchet; and he spoke of it ever so many times.”

“Well, this was certainly like that,” said Mr. Crawford; “and I took occasion to say that it was a noble trait to confess a wrong that was done, instead of trying to conceal it.”

“He never was disposed to conceal his wrong-doings. He takes all the blame to himself, and don’t try to put it on to anybody else.”

“I should think so; and such truthfulness is worthy of all praise,” said Mr. Crawford.

Nat Grigsby attended Crawford’s school, and he says: “Essays and poetry were not taught in this school, but Abe took them up on his own account. He first wrote short sentences on ‘cruelty to animals,’ and finally came out with a regular composition on the subject. He was very much annoyed and pained by the conduct of the boys, who were in the habit of catching terrapins and putting coals of fire on their backs. He would chide us tell us it was wrong, and would write against it.”

This statement shows that Abraham’s teacher encouraged him in just those exercises that contributed to his rapid mental growth. Evidently he understood the boy, as we have said, and gave him an impulse, onward and upward, that he never ceased to feel. Here he first attempted the role of poet, as well as essayist; and, also, played the part of orator. He possessed a remarkable memory, and could repeat long paragraphs from the books he had read and the sermons he had heard. He was wont to recite these for the amusement of his companions; and, one day, he was displaying his oratorical powers upon a stump, when one of the boys threw a terrapin against a tree near the speaker, crushing the poor animal so cruelly that he writhed upon the ground, exciting the tender sympathies of Abraham, and causing him to strike out upon an oration or sermon (whatever we may call it) against cruelty to animals, denouncing the act as inhuman, and holding up the boy who did it to scorn until he writhed under the scorching rebuke well nigh as much as the terrapin did through his thoughtless act.

At another time he became the counsel for a terrapin on whose back the boys were putting coals of fire.

“Don’t!” exclaimed Abraham, as if he felt the burning coals upon his own back.

“Don’t what?” responded a boy, at the same time giving the terrapin a punch with a stick.

“Don’t be so cruel,” continued Abraham; “how would you like to have coals put on your own back?”

“Try it, and see,” shouted one.

“Well, it is cruel to treat him so—and mean, too,” persisted Abraham.