LINCOLN ROOM 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 MEMORIAL 
 
 the Class of 1901 
 
 founded by 
 
 HARLAN HOYT HORNER 
 
 and 
 
 HENRIETTA CALHOUN HORNER 
 
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JOSEPH BHV[JAMIN 
 OAKLEAF* 
 
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913 .71. & 3 Lincoln. 7?oo» 7 
 
 /US'*. 
 
 THIRTY-NINTH 
 
 ANNUAL 
 
 LINCOLN DINNER 
 
 NATIONAL REPUBLICAN CLUB 
 
 THURSDAY, FEBRUARY TWELFTH 
 
 NINETEEN TWENTY-FIVE 
 
 WALDORF-ASTORIA 
 
 1171 
 
GRACE 
 
 Right Reverend WILLIAM T. MANNING, D.D. 
 Bishop of New York 
 
 SPEAKERS 
 
 Honorable CHARLES EVANS HUGHES 
 Secretary of State 
 
 "OUR COUNTRY" 
 
 Honorable SIMEON D. FESS 
 
 United States Senator from Ohio 
 
 "ABRAHAM LINCOLN" 
 
 Honorable HIRAM BINGHAM 
 
 United States Senator from Connecticut 
 
 "THE REPUBLICAN PARTY" 
 
 Honorable WILLIAM M. CALDER 
 
 President of the Club 
 
 Presiding 
 
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 Treasurer 
 
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 Secretary 
 
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 JAMES W. WADSWORTH, Jr. 
 J. MAYHEW WAINWRIGHT 
 
 WILLIAM M. CALDER 
 Ex-Officio 
 
THE BEAR HUNT 
 
 <zAn Original ballad 
 By ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 Copyrighted by the Atlantic Monthly, February, 1925. 
 
 Abraham Lincoln neither wrote, nor attempted to 
 write, much verse. What little he did write was perhaps the 
 product of a sort of mental exercise — to gratify an impulse to 
 see what he could do. 
 
 Writing from Springfield, Illinois, on September 6, 1846, 
 to his former Springfield neighbor, Andrew Johnston, then 
 living in Richmond, Lincoln refers to a promise once made 
 Johnston to 'bore' him with another 'little canto of what I 
 called poetry.' The 1846 message to Johnston fulfilled this 
 promise, the subject of the poem being Matthew Gentry, the 
 insane son of the leading citizen of Gentryville, Indiana, where 
 Lincoln had lived for some thirteen years, from young boy- 
 hood on. In 1844 Lincoln was campaigning in Southern 
 Indiana, and it was at this time that the sad condition of his 
 former schoolmate was revealed to him. The first verse of 
 the Matthew Gentry poem, which may be found in the com- 
 plete works of Lincoln, reads as follows: — 
 
 But here's an object more of dread 
 Than aught the grave contains — 
 
 A human form with reason fled 
 While wretched life remains. 
 
 In the letter sent to Johnston enclosing the verse, Lincoln 
 says: Tf I should ever send another (poem), the subject will 
 be a "Bear Hunt."' 
 
 Some time later Lincoln wrote 'The Bear Hunt/ and sent 
 it to his friend. Whether he retained a copy is doubtful, but 
 Johnston apparently kept the manuscript until 1869, when he 
 passed it on to Thomas H. Wynne, of Richmond. The latter 
 bequeathed it to R. A. Brock, of Richmond, by whom it was 
 sold in 1905 to George S. Hellman, of New York, who in 
 turn disposed of it to J. P. Morgan. The original manuscript, 
 in perfect condition, is now in the Morgan Library in New York. 
 
 -CHARLES T. WHITE 
 
THE BEAR HUNT 
 
 A wild bear chase didst never see? 
 
 Then hast thou lived in vain — 
 Thy richest bump of glorious glee 
 
 Lies desert in thy brain. 
 
 When first my father settled here, 
 
 'T was then the frontier line; 
 The panther's scream filled night with fear 
 
 And bears preyed on the swine. 
 
 But woe for bruin's short-lived fun 
 
 When rose the squealing cry; 
 Now man and horse, with dog and gun 
 
 For vengeance at him fly. 
 
 A sound of danger strikes his ear; 
 
 He gives the breeze a snuff; 
 Away he bounds, with little fear, 
 
 And seeks the tangled rough. 
 
 On press his foes, and reach the ground 
 Where's left his half-munched meal; 
 
 The dogs, in circles, scent around 
 And find his fresh made trail. 
 
 With instant cry, away they dash, 
 
 And men as fast pursue; 
 O'er logs they leap, through water splash 
 
 And shout the brisk halloo. 
 
 Now to elude the eager pack 
 
 Bear shuns the open ground, 
 Through matted vines he shapes his track, 
 
 And runs it, round and round. 
 
 The tall, fleet cur, with deep-mouthed voice 
 
 Now speeds him, as the wind; 
 While half-grown pup, and short-legged fice ' 
 
 Are yelping far behind. 
 
 1 A small dog of nondescript breed. Local, U. S. A. — The Editor 
 
And fresh recruits are dropping in 
 
 To join the merry corps; 
 With yelp and yell, a mingled din — 
 
 The woods are in a roar — 
 
 And round, and round the chase now goes, 
 
 The world 's alive with fun; 
 Nick Carter's horse his rider throws, 
 
 And Mose Hill drops his gun. 
 
 Now, sorely pressed, bear glances back, 
 
 And lolls his tired tongue, 
 When as to force him from his track 
 
 An ambush on him sprung. 
 
 Across the glade he sweeps for flight, 
 
 And fully is in view — 
 The dogs, new fired by the sight 
 
 Their cry and speed renew. 
 
 The foremost ones now reach his rear; 
 
 He turns, they dash away, 
 And circling now the wrathful bear 
 
 They have him full at bay. 
 
 At top of speed the horsemen come, 
 
 All screaming in a row — 
 'Whoop!' 'Take him, Tiger!' 'Seize him, Drum!' 
 
 Bang — bang! the rifles go! 
 
 And furious now, the dogs he tears, 
 
 And crushes in his ire — 
 Wheels right and left, and upward rears, 
 
 With eyes of burning fire. 
 
 But leaden death is at his heart — 
 
 Vain all the strength he plies, 
 And, spouting blood from every part, 
 
 He reels, and sinks, and dies! 
 
 And now a dinsome clamor rose, — 
 
 'But who should have his skin?' 
 Who first draws blood, each hunter knows 
 
 This prize must always win. 
 
But, who did this, and how to trace 
 What 's true from what 's a lie, — 
 
 Like lawyers in a murder case 
 They stoutly argufy. 
 
 Aforesaid fice, of blustering mood, 
 
 Behind, and quite forgot, 
 Just now emerging from the wood 
 
 Arrives upon the spot. 
 
 With grinning teeth, and up-turned hair 
 Brim full of spunk and wrath, 
 
 He growls, and seizes on dead bear 
 And shakes for life and death — 
 
 And swells, as if his skin would tear, 
 And growls, and shakes again, 
 
 And swears, as plain as dog can swear 
 That he has won the skin! 
 
 Conceited whelp! we laugh at thee, 
 
 Nor mind that not a few 
 Of pompous, two-legged dogs there be 
 
 Conceited quite as you. 
 

 
 
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