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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
charged into me like a young steer," and the boy, out of his deep trouble, laughed delightedly. "My name is Lincoln."
The young officer regarded him.
"That's a good name from your standpoint—you are, I take it, a Northerner?"
The deep eyes smiled whimsically. "I'm on that side of the fence. You may call me a Yankee if you'd like."
"There's something about you, Mr. Lincoln," the young Georgian answered gravely, with a kindly and unconscious condescension, "which makes me wish to call you, if I may, a friend."
He had that happy instinct which shapes a sentence to fall on its smoothest surface, and the President, in whom the same instinct was strong,
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