James Daugherty has turned his pen to Abraham Lincoln, sixteenth president of the United States. His book is the people's Lincoln, Lincoln the man—seen through the clear eyes of an artist and poet, American to the bone.
It is a story to set the blood tingling and fill the heart with sorrow and glory, to set the footsteps of the mind on leaf-fallen Kentucky ground, on Springfield's pavements, and down the hurried streets of Washington in the spring rain.
It is a picture of a tumbling, surging young nation with the pioneer states knocking at the door, the era of the coonskin cap and the French brocade. Across its broad canvas pass the lynx-eyed backwoodsmen, the crinolined belles of the plantation South, the slick politicians of wartime Washington in the 1860s, the desperate fighters in blue and gray. It is the sound of battle, and the bands playing "Dixie," and the march of tired feet and the trumpets calling.
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