Ships
from many different countries were tied up at the wharves. Negro slaves
were rolling bales of cotton onto a steamboat. Other Negroes, toting
huge baskets on their heads, passed by. Sailors from many lands,
speaking strange tongues, rubbed elbows with fur trappers dressed in
buckskins from the far Northwest. A cotton planter in a white suit
glanced at the two youths from Pigeon Creek. He seemed amused. Abe
looked down at his homespun blue jeans. He had not realized that all
young men did not wear them.
"Reckon we do look different from some of the folks down here," he said,
as he and Allen turned into a narrow street.
Here there were more people--always more people. The public square was
crowded. Abe gazed in awe at the Cathedral. This tall Spanish church,
with its two graceful towers, was so different from the log meeting
house that the Lincolns attended.
Nor was there anything back in Pigeon Creek like the tall plaster houses
faded by time and weather into warm tones of pink and lavender and
yellow. The balconies, or porches, on the upper floors had wrought iron
railings, of such delicate design that they looked like iron lace.
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