From Farm House to the White House. William Makepeace Thayer
bubbling springs to quench your thirst; wood to burn that you may be warm in winter; and ten thousand other good things—so many that my son could never number them all, or even think of them! Could chance bring about all these things so exactly as to suit your wants and wishes?"
"No, pa, chance could not do it," answered George, really taking in this new view of the world around him.
"What was it, then, do you think, my son?" continued his father.
"God did it," George replied.
"Yes, George, it is all the work of God, and nobody else," responded his father. "He gives us all."
"Does God give me everything? Don't you give me some things?" George inquired.
"I give you something!" exclaimed his father. "How can I give you anything, George? I who have nothing on earth I can call my own; no, not even the breath I draw!"
"Ain't the house yours, and the garden, and the horses and oxen and sheep?" still inquired George, failing to comprehend the great truth of God's ownership.
"Oh, no, my son, no! Why, you make me shrink into nothing, George, when you talk of all these things belonging to me, who can't even make a grain of sand! How could I give life to the oxen and horses, when I can't give life even to a fly, my son?"
George was introduced into a new world by this lesson, as his father intended that he should be. His precocious mind grasped, finally, the great idea of his "true Father," and the lesson never had to be repeated.
We have rehearsed this incident somewhat in detail as given by Mr. Weems, because its influence will be found interwoven with George's future private and public life.
Another story told by Mr. Weems is the famous hatchet story, which has been rehearsed to so many children, since that day, to rebuke falsehood and promote truth-telling.
His father made him a present of a hatchet with which George was especially delighted. Of course he proceeded forthwith to try it, first hacking his mother's pea-sticks, and, finally, trying its edge upon the body of a beautiful "English cherry-tree." Without understanding that he was destroying the tree, he chopped away upon it to his heart's content, leaving the bark, if not the solid wood underneath, in a very dilapidated condition. The next morning his father discovered the trespass, and, rushing into the house, under much excitement, he exclaimed:
"My beautiful cherry-tree is utterly ruined. Who could hack it in that manner?"
Nobody knew.
"I would not have taken five guineas for it," he added, with a long-drawn sigh. The words had scarcely escaped from his lips before George appeared with his hatchet.
"George," said his father, "do you know who killed that cherry-tree in the garden?"
George had not stopped to think, until that moment, that he had used his hatchet improperly. His father's question was a revelation to him; and he hung his head in a guilty manner for a moment.
"George, did you do it?" urged his father.
Raising his head, and looking his father fully in the face, he replied:
"I can't tell a lie, pa; you know I can't tell a lie, I did cut it with my hatchet."
Mr. Washington was well-nigh overcome by this frank and honest reply. For a moment he stood spell bound; then recovering himself, he exclaimed:
"Come to my arms, my boy! You have paid for the cherry-tree a thousand times over. Such an act of heroism is worth more to me than a thousand trees!"
Mr. Weems regards this honest confession the out-growth of previous instructions upon the sin of lying and the beauty of truthfulness. He represents Mr. Washington as saying to his son:
"Truth, George, is the loveliest quality of youth. I would ride fifty miles, my son, to see the little boy whose heart is so honest, and his lips so pure, that we may depend on every word he says."
"But, oh, how different, George, is the case with the boy who is so given to lying that nobody can believe a word he says. He is looked at with aversion wherever he goes, and parents dread to see him come among their children. O George, rather than see you come to this pass, dear as you are to me, I would follow you to your grave."
Here George protested against being charged with lying. "Do I ever tell lies?" he asked.
"No, George, I thank God you do not; and I rejoice in the hope that you never will. At least, you shall never, from me, have cause to be guilty of so shameful a thing. You know I have always told you, and now tell you again, that, whenever by accident you do anything wrong, which must often be the case, as you are but a little boy, without experience or knowledge, never tell a falsehood to conceal it; but come bravely up, and tell me of it; and your confession will merit love instead of punishment."
As we proceed with this narrative, after having enjoyed this glimpse of George's earliest years, the charming lines of Burleigh will find a fitting application.
"By honest work and inward truth
The victories of our life are won,
And what is wisely done in youth
For all the years is wisely done;
The little deeds of every day
Shape that within which lives for aye.
"No thought so buried in the dark
It shall not bear its bloom in light;
No act too small to leave its mark
Upon the young hearts tablet white;
Our grand achievements, secret springs,
Are tempered among trivial things.
"No soul at last is truly great
That was not greatly true at first;
In childhood's play are seeds of fate
Whose flower in manhood's work shall burst.
In the clinched fist of baby Thor
Might seem his hammer clutched for war.
* * * * * * * *
"The firmest tower to heaven up-piled
Hides deepest its foundation-stone;
Do well the duty of the child,
And manhood's task is well begun;
In thunders of the forum yet
Resounds the mastered alphabet."
George was about eight years old when a great excitement arose among the colonists in Virginia, and the fife and drum were heard, to announce that England, the mother country, needed soldiers.
"A regiment of four battalions is called for, by the king, for a campaign in the West Indies," announced Mr. Washington to his son Lawrence, a young man twenty-two years of age.
"A good opportunity for me," answered Lawrence, who possessed much of the military spirit of his ancestors. "Perhaps I can get a commission."
"Perhaps so," responded his father; "your education ought to place you above the common soldier."
Lawrence had just returned from England, where he had spent seven years in study, enjoying the best literary advantages the country could afford.
"Well, I can enlist and then see what can be done," continued Lawrence. "The regiment will be raised at once, and I can soon find out whether there is an appointment for me."
Soon recruiting parties were parading at the sound of fife and drum, and the military spirit was aroused in the hearts of both young and old. The enthusiasm spread and grew like a fire in the wilderness. The colonists were truly loyal to the king, and their patriotism led them, heartily and promptly, into the defence of the English cause in the West Indies against the Spaniards.
Recruiting