The Perfect Tribute | Page 4

permit me to be

a public speaker."
He went on in a few cordial sentences to pay tribute to the orator of the
occasion. Everett listened thoughtfully and when the chief had done,
"Mr. President," he said simply, "I should be glad if I could flatter
myself that I came as near the central idea of the occasion in two hours
as you did in two minutes."
But Lincoln shook his head and laughed and turned to speak to a
newcomer with no change of opinion--he was apt to trust his own
judgments.
The special train which left Gettysburg immediately after the
solemnities on the battle-field cemetery brought the President's party
into Washington during the night. There was no rest for the man at the
wheel of the nation next day, but rather added work until, at about four
in the afternoon, he felt sorely the need of air and went out from the
White House alone, for a walk. His mind still ran on the events of the
day before--the impressive, quiet multitude, the serene sky of
November arched, in the hushed interregnum of the year, between the
joy of summer and the war of winter, over those who had gone from
earthly war to heavenly joy. The picture was deeply engraved in his
memory; it haunted him. And with it came a soreness, a discomfort of
mind which had haunted him as well in the hours between--the chagrin
of the failure of his speech. During the day he had gently but decisively
put aside all reference to it from those about him; he had glanced at the
head-lines in the newspapers with a sarcastic smile; the Chief
Executive must he flattered, of course; newspaper notices meant
nothing. He knew well that he had made many successful speeches; no
man of his shrewdness could be ignorant that again and again he had
carried an audience by storm; yet he had no high idea of his own
speech-making, and yesterday's affair had shaken his confidence more.
He remembered sadly that, even for the President, no hand, no voice
had been lifted in applause.
"It must have been pretty poor stuff," he said half aloud; "yet I thought
it was a fair little composition. I meant to do well by them."
His long strides had carried him into the outskirts of the city, and
suddenly, at a corner, from behind a hedge, a young boy of fifteen
years or so came rushing toward him and tripped and stumbled against
him, and Lincoln kept him from falling with a quick, vigorous arm. The

lad righted himself and tossed back his thick, light hair and stared
haughtily, and the President, regarding him, saw that his blue eyes were
blind with tears.
"Do you want all of the public highway? Can't a gentleman from the
South even walk in the streets without--without--" and the broken
sentence ended in a sob.
The anger and the insolence of the lad were nothing to the man who
towered above him--to that broad mind this was but a child in trouble.
"My boy, the fellow that's interfering with your walking is down inside
of you," he said gently, and with that the astonished youngster opened
his wet eyes wide and laughed--a choking, childish laugh that pulled at
the older man's heart-strings. "That's better, sonny," he said, and patted
the slim shoulder. "Now tell me what's wrong with the world. Maybe I
might help straighten it."
"Wrong, wrong!" the child raved; "everything's wrong," and launched
into a mad tirade against the government from the President down.
Lincoln listened patiently, and when the lad paused for breath, "Go
ahead," he said good-naturedly. "Every little helps."
With that the youngster was silent and drew himself up with stiff
dignity, offended yet fascinated; unable to tear himself away from this
strange giant who was so insultingly kind under his abuse, who yet
inspired him with such a sense of trust and of hope.
"I want a lawyer," he said impulsively, looking up anxiously into the
deep-lined face inches above him. "I don't know where to find a lawyer
in this horrible city, and I must have one--I can't wait--it may be too
late--I want a lawyer _now_" and once more he was in a fever of
excitement.
"What do you want with a lawyer?" Again the calm, friendly tone
quieted him.
"I want him to draw a will. My brother is--" he caught his breath with a
gasp in a desperate effort for self-control. "They say he's--dying." He
finished the sentence with a quiver in his voice, and the brave front and
the trembling, childish tone went to the man's heart. "I don't believe
it--he can't be dying," the boy talked on, gathering courage. "But
anyway, he wants to make a will, and--and I