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DUST was piled in thick, velvety folds on the weeds and grass of the
open Kansas prairie; it lay, a thin veil on the scrawny black horses and
the sharp-boned cow picketed near a covered wagon; it showered to the
ground in little clouds as Mrs. Wade, a tall, spare woman, moved about a
camp-fire, preparing supper in a sizzling skillet, huge iron kettle and
blackened coffee-pot.

Her husband, pale and gaunt, the shadow of death in his weary face
and the droop of his body, sat leaning against one of the wagon
wheels trying to quiet a wailing, emaciated year-old baby while little
tow-headed Nellie, a vigorous child of seven, frolicked undaunted by the
August heat.
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I arrived in Dublin on the evening of the fifth of August, and drove
to the residence of my uncle, the Cardinal Archbishop. He is like most
of my family, deficient in feeling, and consequently averse to me
personally. He lives in a dingy house, with a side-long view of the
portico of his cathedral from the front windows, and of a monster
national school from the back. My uncle maintains no retinue. The
people believe that he is waited upon by angels. When I knocked at the
door, an old woman, his only servant, opened it, and informed me that
her master was then officiating at the cathedral, and that he had
directed her to prepare dinner for me in his absence. An unpleasant
smell of salt fish made me ask her what the dinner consisted of. She
assured me that she had cooked all that could be permitted in his
Holiness's house on Friday. On my asking her further why on Friday,
she replied that Friday was a fast day. I bade her tell His Holiness
that I had hoped to have the pleasure of calling on him shortly, and
drove to the hotel in Sackville-street, where I engaged apartments and
dined.
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The story of Lincoln, revealing how one American, by his own honest
efforts, rose from the most humble beginning to the most high station of
honor and worth, has inspired millions and will inspire millions more.
The log cabin in which he was born, the ax with which he split the
rails, the few books with which he got the rudiments of an education,
the light of pine knots by which he studied, the flatboat on which he
made the long trip to New Orleans, the slave mart at sight of which his
sympathetic soul revolted against the institution of human
slavery--these are all fraught with intense interest as the rude forces
by which he slowly builded his great character.
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CHRIS FARRINGTON: ABLE SEAMAN


"If you vas in der old country ships, a liddle shaver like you vood pe
only der boy, und you vood wait on der able seamen. Und ven der able
seaman sing out, 'Boy, der water-jug!' you vood jump quick, like a shot,
und bring der water-jug. Und ven der able seaman sing out, 'Boy, my
boots!' you vood get der boots. Und you vood pe politeful, und say
'Yessir' und 'No sir.' But you pe in der American ship, and you t'ink
you are so good as der able seamen. Chris, mine boy, I haf ben a
sailorman for twenty-two years, und do you t'ink you are so good as me?
I vas a sailorman pefore you vas borned, und I knot und reef und splice
ven you play mit topstrings und fly kites."
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