When Abe Lincoln used to be drifting around the country practicing law in Fulton and Menard counties, Illinois, and old fellow met him going to Lewistown, riding a horse which, while it was a serviceable enough an animal, was not of the kind to be truthfully called a fine saddler. It was a weather-beaten nag, patient and plodding and it toiled along with Abe—and Abe’s books, tucked away in saddlebags, lay heavy on the horse’s flank.

"Hello, Uncle Tommy," said Abe. "Hello Abe," responded Uncle Tommy. "I’m powerful glad to see ye, Abe, fer I’m gwyne to have sumthin’ fer ye at Lewistown cot, I reckon."

"How’s that, Uncle Tommy?" said Abe.

"Well, Jim Adams, his land runs long o’ mine, he’s pesterin’ me a heap an’ I got to get the law on Jim, I recon."

"Uncle Tommy, you haven’t had any fight with Jim, have you?"

"No."

"He’s a fair to middling neighbor, isn’t he?"

"Only tollable, Abe."

"He’s been a neighbor of yours for a long time, hasn’t he?"

"Nigh on to fifteen year."

"Part of the time you get along all right, don’t you?"

"I reckon we do, Abe."

"Well, now, Uncle Tommy, you see this horse of mine? He isn’t as good a horse as I could straddle, and I sometimes get out of patience with him, but I know his faults. He does fairly well as horses go, and it might take me a long time to get used to some other horse’s faults. For all horses have faults. You and Uncle Jimmy must put up with each other as I and my horse do with one another."

"I reckon, Abe," said Uncle Tommy, as he bit off about four ounces of Missouri plug. "I reckon you’re about right."

And Abe Lincoln, with a smile on his gaunt face, rode on toward Lewistown.