In the year 1830, or thereabouts, a traveller on the frontier settlements of Illinois (if a traveller was ever known in those dreary regions) might have seen a tall, gaunt, awkward, homely, sad-looking young man of twenty-one, clothed in a suit of brown jean dyed with walnut-bark, hard at work near a log cabin on the banks of the river Sangamon,a small stream emptying into the Illinois River.

Two men wearing similar clothespressed jeans, T-shirts, white running shoes, and sunglasseswalked up and took benches closer to the water.

He looked at his hiking boots, light colored jeans, and dark plaid shirt.

A faded coat, too long in the arms, drooped from his shoulders, and long, loose overalls of gray jeans broke and wrinkled about his slender ankles.

"He was a tall, gaunt young man," Mr. Roll said, "dressed in a suit of blue homespun jeans, consisting of a roundabout jacket, waistcoat, and breeches which came to within about four inches of his feet.

He looked at his hiking boots, light colored jeans, and dark plaid shirt.

If you can go a year on mouldy bacon And fight the scurvy off with bayo beans; If you can jump your socks and do your washing And smile the while you patch your threadbare jeans; If you can laugh when sordid hunger mocks you And smile while passing strangers eat your grub; If you can boost when everybody knocks you And know him wrong who holds you but a dub.