It was a relief when he went on again to the "Hand of the king that the scepter hath borne," and the "brow of the priest that the miter hath worn." They seemed to see the king and the priest and they felt the force of the words as he read: From the death we are shrinking, our fathers would shrink. To the lives we are clinging our fathers would cling. But it speeds from us all--like--a--bird--on--the--wing. He measured the words off slowly. He was not looking at the book. Perhaps he saw fleet birds winging their way beyond his vision. His listeners divined something of the kind. He had reached another hard place. He picked up the book and looked at it and replaced it on his knee. Again he was speaking nearer or farther than those just about him. They loved--but the story we cannot unfold.... They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. "Jo," he said, handing the book to Kelsy, "you know the poem. Finish it for the boys." Kelsy finished it. But they did not hear him. The poem to them mattered little. The man who had read it meant much. "What's the name of that there poem?" Buck Thompson asked. "_Immortality._" "Immortality--that means that this here vale of tears is not all that's comin' to us?" "That's it. We are only here a little while at best. Any good thing therefore that we can do, let's do it. We won't come back this way, you know." Here Ole Bar returned. They all looked at him inquiringly. "What you lookin' at?" he growled. "Nothin' the matter with that poem. But my fool nose she runs like the devil at first frost fall and leaves ain't much good fur shuttin' her off when'a poem's goin' on." His explanation was accepted. Lincoln was speaking again. "You've been good friends to have, and I want to say, because I won't always be about these parts, that if any of you ever get in need of a friend and Abe Lincoln can help him out, call on him. And I want to say to you that I've lived the best time of my life right here in New Salem--the happiest--and--well, I'll see you again--good-bye, boys." And the tall man slightly bent, and moving as if aged, left the group around the fire. There was silence about the fire for a full minute. "Poor Old Abe," said Buck. "I'd a give my right arm to have kept this here thing from happenin'," said Armstrong. "Do you fellows recollect," Kit Parsons said, "the man that was through here preaching two years ago--the feller that preached one night about the 'Man of Sorrows?' Recollect how the women bawled? Looked like they couldn't suppress themselves nor get hold of enough dry-goods to sop up their flowin' tears. It's just now soakin' into my head the reason of it all." "Well, what was it?" "That feller made 'em _see_ the man." Here was thought for reflection. A moment later Buck Thompson took up a bottle, threw back his head and raised it to his lips, saying as he did so, "I'm glad he didn't say nothin' about Ann Rutledge."