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Updated: June 13, 2025
Her glance swept the interior of the store with its strange conglomeration of goods for sale on the shelves the rows of glowingly labeled canned goods, the blue papers of macaroni, the little green cartons of fishhooks; the clothing hanging in groves, the rows and rows of red mittens; tiers of kegs of red lead, barrels of flour, boxes of hardtack; hanks of tarred ground-line, coils of several sizes of cordage, with a small kedge anchor here and there.
He tossed away the empty bottle and advanced upon the wagon, his face blanched by self-pity. He was confounded by the sight of Colonel Grand, sitting inside and going over the cash with Hanks, the seller. "What do you want?" demanded Colonel Grand, when Braddock, after trying the locked door, showed his convulsed face at the little window. Hanks looked uncomfortable.
As none of the smugglers had seen him get out of the water, they were completely taken by surprise, and without striking another blow, sung out for quarter. "You don't deserve it, you blackguards, for daring to resist a king's officer in the execution of his duty," cried Hanks, flourishing his stretcher. "But, forward with you, there, and don't move till I give you leave."
The smugglers, as well as they might, were certainly sulky; and Hanks, as a gentle hint for them to behave themselves, stationed a man with a double-barrelled pistol in his hand close to them, while they stood huddled together on the little forecastle. I took the helm, while the sails were trimmed and a course shaped for the Needles.
On June 10, 1806, Thomas Lincoln gave bond in the "just and full sum of fifty pounds" to marry Nancy Hanks, and two days later, June 12, he did so, in Washington County, Kentucky. She was then twenty-three years old. February 12, 1807, their daughter Sarah was born, who was married and died leaving no issue.
She watched the gathering of the distant thunderclouds, which cast a deeper, more sombre shade upon the pines that girded the northern shores of the lake as with an ebon frame. There stood the big spinning-wheel, just as she had set it aside; the hanks of dyed yarn suspended from the rafters, the basket filled with the carded wool ready for her work.
At all events she soon died and the future president passed into his first sorrow. The widowed husband was undertaker. With his own hands he "rived" the planks, made the coffin, and buried Nancy Hanks, that remarkable woman. There was no pastor, no funeral service. The grave was marked by a wooden slab, which, long years after, in 1879, was replaced by a stone suitably inscribed.
In central Kentucky, a poor new village was Elizabethtown, unkempt, chokingly dusty in the dry weather, with muddy streams instead of streets during the rains, a stench of pig-sties at the back of its cabins, but everywhere looking outward glimpses of a lovely meadow land. At Elizabethtown in 1806 lived Joseph Hanks, a carpenter, also his niece Nancy Hanks.
Indeed, he seemed rather a mild man, but when he turned on me a pair of large spectacles I felt suddenly as though I were a curious insect being examined under magnifying-glasses. Mr. Hanks, with his thin, pale face and dishevelled hair, appeared more an entomologist than a militant editor. In a moment, however, I saw him in action.
The boy Abraham climbed at night to his bed of leaves in the loft, by a ladder of wooden pins driven into the logs. This life has been vaunted by poets and romancers as a happy and healthful one. Even Dennis Hanks, speaking of his youthful days when his only home was the half-faced camp, says, "I tell you, Billy, I enjoyed myself better then than I ever have since."
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