Abraham swung his whip lustily over the oxen's heads on that long spring journey, and directed the way. The wheels of the cart were great rollers, and they creaked along. Here and there the roads were muddy, but the sky was blue above, and the buds were swelling, and the birds were singing, and the little dog that belonged to the party kept close to his heels, and the poor people journeyed on under the giant timber, and out of it at times along the ocean-like prairies of the Illinois. The world was before them--an expanse of forest and prairie that in fifty years were to be changed by the axe and plowshare into prosperous farms and homesteads, and settled by the restless nations of the world. The journey was long. There were spells of wintry weather, for the spring advanced by degrees even here. Streams overflowing their banks lay across their way, and these had to be forded. One morning the party came to a stream covered with thin ice. The oxen and horses hesitated, but were forced into the cold water. After a dreary effort the hardy pilgrims passed over and mounted the western bank. A sharp cry was heard on the opposite side. "You have left the dog, Abe," said one. "Good riddance to him! I am glad that we are quit of him at last." The dog's pitiable cry rang out on the crisp, cool air. He was barking _to_ Abraham, and the teamster's heart recognized that the animal's call was to him. "See him run, and howl!" said another. "Whip up, Abe, and we will soon be out of sight." Young Lincoln looked behind. The little animal would go down to the water, and try to swim across, but the broken ice drove him back. Then he set up a cry, as much as to say: "Abe, Abe, you will not leave me!" "Drive on," said one of the men. "He'll take care of himself. He'd no business to lag behind. What do we want of the dog, anyway?" The animal cried more and more piteously and lustily. "Whoa!" said Lincoln. "What are you going to do, Abe?" "To do as I would be done by. I can't stand that." Lincoln plunged into the frozen water and waded across. The dog, overjoyed, leaped into his arms. Lincoln returned, having borne the little dog in his arms across the stream. He was cold and dripping, and was censured for causing a needless delay. But he had a happy face and heart. Referring to this episode of the journey a long time afterward, Lincoln said to a friend: "I could not endure the idea of abandoning even a dog. Pulling off shoes and socks, I waded across the stream, and triumphantly returned with the shivering animal under my arms. His frantic leaps of joy, and other evidences of gratitude, repaid me for all the exposure I had undergone." CHAPTER XVIII. MAIN-POGUE.