experience in the art of building that his services corresponded to those of the more modern supervising architect.
With the aid of the oxen and a plow John and Abe broke up fifteen acres of sod, and “Abe and myself,” observes Hanks
in a matter-of-fact way, “split rails enough to fence the place in.”
As they swung their axes, or with wedge and maul split out the rails, how strange to them the thought would have seemed that those self-same rails were destined to make one of them immortal.
If such a vision flashed before the mind of either he made no sign of it, but each kept steadily on in his simple, unromantic task.
Abe had now attained his majority and began to throw from his shoulders the vexations of parental restraint.
He had done his duty to his father, and felt able to begin life on his own account.
As he steps out into the broad and inviting world we take him up for consideration as a man. At the same time we dispense with further notice of his father, Thomas Lincoln
In the son are we alone interested.
The remaining years of his life marked no change in the old gentleman's nature.
He still listened to the glowing descriptions of prosperity in the adjoining counties, and before his death moved three times in search of better times and a healthy location.
In 1851 we find him living on forty acres of land on Goose Nest prairie, in Coles county, Illinois
The land bore the usual incumbrance — a mortgage for two hundred dollars, which his son afterwards paid.
On the 17th of January, after suffering for many weeks from a disorder of the