God has richly provided us with these trees loaded with the finest
fruit. See how abundant is the harvest. Some of the trees are bending
beneath their burdens, while the ground is covered with mellow apples,
more than you could eat, my son, in all your lifetime.”
George looked in silence on the orchard, he marked the busy, humming
bees, and heard the gay notes of the birds fluttering from tree to tree.
His eyes filled with tears and he answered softly:--
“Truly, father, I never will be selfish any more.”
III. THE GARDEN-BED
One day Mr. Washington went into the garden and dug a little bed of
earth and prepared it for seed. He then took a stick and traced on the
bed George's name in full. After this he strewed the tracing thickly
with seeds, and smoothed all over nicely with his roller.
This garden-bed he purposely prepared close to a gooseberry-walk. The
bushes were hung with the ripe fruit, and he knew that George would
visit them every morning.
Not many days had passed away when one morning George came running
into the house, breathless with excitement, and his eyes shining with
happiness.
“Come here! father, come here!” he cried.
“What's the matter, my son?” asked his father.
“O come, father,” answered George, “and I'll show you such a sight as
you have never seen in all your lifetime.”
Mr. Washington gave the boy his hand, which he seized with great
eagerness. He led his father straight to the garden-bed, whereon in
large letters, in lines of soft green, was written:--
GEORGE WASHINGTON
YOUNG GEORGE AND THE COLT
BY HORACE E. SCUDDER
There is a story told of George Washington's boyhood,--unfortunately
there are not many stories,--which is to the point. His father had taken
a great deal of pride in his blooded horses, and his mother afterward
took pains to keep the stock pure. She had several young horses that
had not yet been broken, and one of them in particular, a sorrel, was
extremely spirited. No one had been able to do anything with it, and it
was pronounced thoroughly vicious as people are apt to pronounce horses
which they have not learned to master.
George was determined to ride this colt, and told his companions that if
they would help him catch it, he would ride and tame it.
Early in the morning they set out for the pasture, where the boys
managed to surround the sorrel, and then to put a bit into its mouth.
Washington sprang upon its back, the boys dropped the bridle, and away
flew the angry animal.
Its rider at once began to command. The horse resisted, backing about
the field, rearing and plunging. The boys became thoroughly alarmed,
but Washington kept his seat, never once losing his self-control or his
mastery of the colt.
The struggle was a sharp one; when suddenly, as if determined to rid
itself of its rider, the creature leaped into the air with a tremendous
bound. It was its last. The violence burst a blood-vessel, and the noble
horse fell dead.
Before the boys could sufficiently recover to consider how they should
extricate themselves from the scrape, they were called to breakfast;
and the mistress of the house, knowing that they had been in the fields,
began to ask after her stock.
“Pray, young gentlemen,” said she, “have you seen my blooded colts in
your rambles? I hope they are well taken care of. My favorite, I am
told, is as large as his sire.”
The boys looked at one another, and no one liked to speak. Of course the
mother repeated her question.
“The sorrel is dead, madam,” said her son, “I killed him.”
And then he told the whole story. They say that his mother flushed with
anger, as her son often used to, and then, like him, controlled herself,
and presently said, quietly:--
“It is well; but while I regret the loss of my favorite, I rejoice in my
son who always speaks the truth.”
WASHINGTON THE ATHLETE
BY ALBERT F. BLAISDELL AND FRANCIS E. BALL
Many stories are told of the mighty power of Washington's right arm. It
is said that he once threw a stone from the bed of the stream to the top
of the Natural Bridge, in Virginia.
Again, we are told that once upon a time he rounded a piece of slate
to the size of a silver dollar, and threw it across the Rappahannock
at Fredericksburg, the slate falling at least thirty feet on the other
side. Many strong men have since tried the same feat, but have never
cleared the water.
Peale, who was called the soldier-artist, was once visiting Washington
at Mount Vernon. One day, he tells us, some athletic young men were
pitching the iron bar in the presence of their host. Suddenly, without
taking off his coat, Washington grasped the bar and hurled it, with
little effort, much farther than any of them had done.
“We were, indeed, amazed,” said one of the young men, “as we stood
round, all stripped to the buff, and having thought ourselves very
clever fellows, while the Colonel, on retiring, pleasantly said:--
“'When you beat my pitch, young gentlemen, I'll try again.'”
At another time, Washington witnessed a wrestling-match. The champion of
the day challenged him, in sport, to wrestle. Washington did not stop to
take off his coat, but grasped the “strong man of Virginia.” It was
all over in a moment, for, said the wrestler, “In Washington's lionlike
grasp I became powerless, and was hurled to the ground with a force that
seemed to jar the very marrow in my bones.”
In the days of the Revolution, some of the riflemen and the backwoodsmen
were men of gigantic strength, but it was generally believed by good
judges that their commander-in-chief was the strongest man in the army.
WASHINGTON'S MODESTY
BY HENRY CABOT LODGE (ADAPTED)
Washington as soon as Fort Duquesne had fallen hurried home, resigned
his commission, and was married. The sunshine and glitter of the
wedding day must have appeared to Washington deeply appropriate, for
he certainly seemed to have all that heart of man could desire. Just
twenty-seven, in the first flush of young manhood, keen of sense and yet
wise in experience, life must have looked very fair and smiling. He had
left the army with a well-earned fame, and had come home to take the
wife of his choice, and enjoy the good will and respect of all men.
While away on his last campaign he had been elected a member of
the House of Burgesses, and when he took his seat, on removing to
Williamsburg, three months after his marriage, Mr. Robinson, the
Speaker, thanked him publicly in eloquent words for his services to the
country.
Washington rose to reply, but he was so utterly unable to talk about
himself that he stood before the House stammering and blushing until the
Speaker said:--
“Sit down, Mr. Washington, your modesty equals your valor, and that
surpasses the power of any language I possess.”
WASHINGTON AT YORKTOWN
BY HENRY CABOT LODGE
During the assault Washington stood in an embrasure of the grand
battery, watching the advance of the men. He was always given to
exposing himself recklessly when there was fighting to be done, but not
when he was only an observer.
This night, however, he was much exposed to the enemy's fire. One of his
aides, anxious and disturbed for his safety, told him that the place was
perilous.
“If you think so,” was the quiet answer, “you are at liberty to step
back.”
The moment was too exciting, too fraught with meaning, to think of
peril. The old fighting spirit of Braddock's field was unchained for the
last time. He would have liked to head the American assault, sword in
hand, and as he could not do that, he stood as near his troops as he
could, utterly regardless of the bullets whistling in the air about him.
Who can wonder at his intense excitement at that moment?
Others saw a brilliant storming of two out-works, but to Washington the
whole Revolution and all the labor and thought and conflict of six years
were culminating in the smoke and din on those redoubts, while out of
the dust and heat of the sharp, quick fight success was coming.
He had waited long, and worked hard, and his whole soul went out as he
watched the troops cross the abatis and scale the works. He could have
no thought of danger then, and when all was over, he turned to Knox and
said:--
“The work is done, and well done. Bring me my horse.”
RESURRECTION DAY (EASTER)
(MARCH OR APRIL)
A LESSON OF FAITH
BY MRS. ALFRED GATTY (ADAPTED)
“Let me hire you as a nurse for my poor children,” said a butterfly to
a quiet caterpillar, who was strolling along a cabbage-leaf in her odd,
lumbering fashion.
“See these little eggs,” continued the butterfly; “I do not know how
long it will be before they come to life, and I feel very sick. If I
should die, who will take care of my baby butterflies when I am gone?
Will you, kind, mild, green caterpillar? They cannot, of course, live
on your rough food. You must give them early dew, and honey from the
flowers, and you must let them fly about only a little way at first.
Dear me! it is a sad pity that you cannot fly yourself. Dear, dear! I
cannot think what made me come and lay my eggs on a cabbage-leaf! What
a place for young butterflies to be bore upon! Here, take this gold-dust
from my wings as a reward. Oh, how dizzy I am! Caterpillar! you will
remember about the food--”
And with these words the butterfly drooped her wings and died. The green
caterpillar, who had not had the opportunity of even saying “yes”
or “no” to the request, was left standing alone by the side of the
butterfly's eggs.
“A pretty nurse she has chosen, indeed, poor lady!” exclaimed she, “and
a pretty business I have in hand. Why did she ever ask a poor crawling
creature like me to bring up her dainty little ones! Much they'll mind
me, truly, when they feel the gay wings on their backs, and can fly
away.”
However, the poor butterfly was dead, and there lay the eggs on the
cabbage-leaf, and the green caterpillar had a kind heart, so she
resolved to do her best.
“But two heads are better than one,” said she; “I will consult some wise
animal on the matter.”
Then she thought and thought till at last she thought of the lark, and
she fancied that because he went up so high, and nobody knew where he
went to, he must be very clever and know a great deal.
Now in the neighboring cornfield there lived a lark, and the caterpillar
sent a message to him, begging him to come and talk to her. When he came
she told him all her difficulties, and asked him how she was to feed and
rear the little butterfly creatures.
“Perhaps you will be able to inquire and learn something about it the
next time you go up high,” said the caterpillar timidly.
“Perhaps I can,” answered the lark; and then he went singing upwards
into the bright, blue sky, till the green caterpillar could not hear a
sound, nor could she see him any more. So she began to walk round the
butterfly's eggs, nibbling a bit of the cabbage-leaf now and then as she
moved along.
“What a time the lark has been gone!” she cried at last. “I wonder where
he is just now. He must have flown higher than usual this time. How I
should like to know where he goes, and what he hears in that curious
blue sky! He always sings going up and coming down, but he never lets
any secret out.”
And the green caterpillar took another turn round the butterfly's eggs.
At last the lark's voice began to be heard again. The caterpillar almost
jumped for joy, and it was not long before she saw her friend descend
with hushed note to the cabbage bed.
“News, news, glorious news, friend caterpillar!” sang the lark, “but the
worst of it is, you won't believe me!”
“I believe anything I am told,” said the caterpillar hastily.
“Well, then, first of all, I will tell you what those little creatures
are to eat”--and the lark nodded his head toward the eggs. “What do you
think it is to be? Guess!”
“Dew and honey out of the flowers, I am afraid!” sighed the caterpillar.
“No such thing, my good friend,” cried the lark exultantly; “you are to
feed them with cabbage-leaves!”
“Never!” said the caterpillar indignantly.
“It was their mother's last request that I should feed them on dew and
honey.”
“Their mother knew nothing about the matter,” answered the lark; “but
why do you ask me, and then disbelieve what I say? You have neither
faith nor trust.”
“Oh, I believe everything I am told,” said the caterpillar.
“Nay, but you do not,” replied the lark.
“Why, caterpillar, what do you think those little eggs will turn out to
be?”
“Butterflies, to be sure,” said the caterpillar.
“CATERPILLARS!” sang the lark; “and you'll find it out in time.” And the
lark flew away.
“I thought the lark was wise and kind,” said the mild, green caterpillar
to herself, once more beginning to walk round the eggs, “but I find that
he is foolish and saucy instead. Perhaps he went up TOO high this time.
How I wonder what he sees, and what he does up yonder!”
“I would tell you if you would believe me,” sang the lark, descending
once more.
“I believe everything I am told,” answered the caterpillar.
“Then I'll tell you something else,” cried the lark. “YOU WILL ONE DAY
BE A BUTTERFLY YOURSELF!”
“Wretched bird,” exclaimed the caterpillar, “you are making fun of me.
You are now cruel as well as foolish! Go away! I will ask your advice no
more.”
“I told you you would not believe me,” cried the lark.
“I believe everything I am told,” persisted the
caterpillar,--“everything that it is REASONABLE to believe. But to tell
me that butterflies' eggs are caterpillars, and that caterpillars leave
off crawling and get wings and become butterflies!--Lark! you do not
believe such nonsense yourself! You know it is impossible!”
“I know no such thing,” said the lark. “When I hover over the
cornfields, or go up into the depths of the sky, I see so many wonderful
things that I know there must be more. O caterpillar! it is because you
CRAWL, and never get beyond your cabbage-leaf, that you call anything
IMPOSSIBLE.”
“Nonsense,” shouted the caterpillar, “I know what's possible and what's
impossible. Look at my long, green body, and many legs, and then talk to
me about having wings! Fool!”
“More foolish you!” cried the indignant lark, “to attempt to reason
about what you cannot understand. Do you not hear how my song swells
with rejoicing as I soar upwards to the mysterious wonder-world above?
Oh, caterpillar, what comes from thence, receive as I do,--on trust.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked the caterpillar.
“ON FAITH,” answered the lark.
“How am I to learn faith?” asked the caterpillar.
At that moment she felt something at her side. She looked round,--eight
or ten little green caterpillars were moving about, and had already made
a hole in the cabbage-leaf. They had broken from the butterfly's eggs!
Shame and amazement filled the green caterpillar's heart, but joy soon
followed. For as the first wonder was possible, the second might be so
too.
“Teach me your lesson, lark,” she cried.
And the lark sang to her of the wonders of the earth below and of the
heaven above. And the caterpillar talked all the rest of her life of the
time when she should become a butterfly.
But no one believed her. She nevertheless had learned the lark's lesson
of faith, and when she was going into her chrysalis, she said:--
“I shall be a butterfly some day!”
But her relations thought her head was wandering, and they said, “Poor
thing!”
And when she was a butterfly, and was going to die she said:--
“I have known many wonders,--I HAVE FAITH,--I can trust even now for the
wonder that shall come next.”
A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR
BY CHARLES DICKENS
There was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought
of a number of things. He had a sister, who was a child, too, and his
constant companion. These two used to wonder all day long. They wondered
at the beauty of the flowers; they wondered at the height and blueness
of the sky; they wondered at the depth of the bright water; they
wondered at the goodness and the power of God who made the lovely world.
They used to say to one another, sometimes: “Supposing all the children
upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the sky
be sorry?” They believed they would be sorry. “For,” said they, “the buds
are the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams that
gambol down the hillsides are the children of the water; and the
smallest, bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night,
must surely be the children of the stars; and they would all be grieved
to see their playmates, the children of men, no more.”
There was one clear, shining star that used to come out in the sky
before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger
and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night
they watched for it, standing hand in hand at a window. Whoever saw
it first cried out: “I see the star!” And often they cried out both
together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew
to be such friends with it, that, before lying down in their beds, they
always looked out once again, to bid it good-night; and when they were
turning round to sleep, they used to say: “God bless the star!”
But while she was still very young, oh, very, very young, the sister
drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer stand in the
window at night; and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and
when he saw the star turned round and said to the patient, pale face on
the bed: “I see the star!” and then a smile would come upon the face,
and a little weak voice used to say: “God bless my brother and the
star!”
And so the time came all too soon, when the child looked out alone, and
when there was no face on the bed; and when there was a little grave
among the graves, not there before; and when the star made long rays
down towards him, as he saw it through his tears.
Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a shining
way from earth to heaven, that when the child went to his solitary bed
he dreamed about the star; and dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw
a train of people taken up that sparkling road by angels. And the star,
opening, showed him a great world of light, where many more such angels
waited to receive them.
All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon the
people who were carried up into the star; and some came out from the
long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and
kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and
were so happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy.
But there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them
one he knew. The patient face, that once had lain upon the bed, was
glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the
host.
His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to
the leader among those who had brought the people thither:--
“Is my brother come?”
And he said: “No.”
She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms,
and cried: “O sister, I am here! Take me!” And then she turned her
beaming eyes upon him, and it was night; and the star was shining into
the room, making long rays down towards him, as he saw it through his
tears.
From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as on the home
he was to go to when his time should come; and he thought that he did
not belong to the earth alone, but to the star, too, because of his
sister's angel gone before.
There was a baby born to be a brother to the child; and while he was so
little that he never yet had spoken word, he stretched his tiny form out
on his bed, and died.
Again the child dreamed of the open star, and of the company of angels,
and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their beaming eyes
all turned upon those people's faces.
Said his sister's angel to the leader:--
“Is my brother come?”
And he said: “Not that one, but another.”
As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried: “O
sister, I am here! Take me!” And she turned and smiled upon him, and the
star was shining.
He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an old
servant came to him and said:--
“Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son.”
Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said his
sister's angel to the leader:--
“Is my brother come?”
And he said: “Thy mother!”
A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother
was reunited to her two children. And he stretched out his arms and
cried: “O mother, sister, and brother, I am here! Take me!” And they
answered him: “Not yet.” And the star was shining.
He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and he was sitting in
his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face bedewed
with tears, when the star opened once again.
Said his sister's angel to the leader:--
“Is my brother come?”
And he said: “Nay, but his maiden daughter.”
And the man, who had been the child, saw his daughter, newly lost to
him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said: “My daughter's
head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my mother's neck,
and at her feet there is the baby of old time, and I can bear the
parting from her, God be praised!”
And the star was shining.
Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was
wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And
one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried,
as he had cried so long ago:--
“I see the star!”
They whispered one to another: “He is dying.”
And he said: “I am. My age is falling from me like a garment, and I move
towards the star as a child. And, O my Father, now I thank Thee that it
has so often opened to receive those dear ones who await me!”
And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave.
THE LOVELIEST ROSE IN THE WORLD
BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (ADAPTED)
Once there reigned a queen, in whose garden were found the most glorious
flowers at all seasons and from all the lands of the world. But more
than all others she loved the roses, and she had many kinds of this
flower, from the wild dog-rose with its apple-scented green leaves to
the most splendid, large, crimson roses. They grew against the garden
walls, wound themselves around the pillars and wind-frames, and crept
through the windows into the rooms, and all along the ceilings in the
halls. And the roses were of many colors, and of every fragrance and
form.
But care and sorrow dwelt in those halls. The queen lay upon a sick-bed,
and the doctors said she must die.
“There is still one thing that can save her,” said the wise man. “Bring
her the loveliest rose in the world, the rose that is the symbol of the
purest, the brightest love. If that is held before her eyes ere they
close, she will not die.”
Then old and young came from every side with roses, the loveliest that
bloomed in each garden, but they were not of the right sort. The flower
was to be plucked from the Garden of Love. But what rose in all that
garden expressed the highest and purest love?
And the poets sang of the loveliest rose in the world,--of the love of
maid and youth, and of the love of dying heroes.
“But they have not named the right flower,” said the wise man. “They
have not pointed out the place where it blooms in its splendor. It is
not the rose that springs from the hearts of youthful lovers, though
this rose will ever be fragrant in song. It is not the bloom that
sprouts from the blood flowing from the breast of the hero who dies
for his country, though few deaths are sweeter than his, and no rose is
redder than the blood that flows then. Nor is it the wondrous flower
to which man devotes many a sleepless night and much of his fresh
life,--the magic flower of science.”
“But I know where it blooms,” said a happy mother, who came with her
pretty child to the bedside of the dying queen. “I know where the
loveliest rose of love may be found. It springs in the blooming cheeks
of my sweet child, when, waking from sleep, it opens its eyes and smiles
tenderly at me.”
“Lovely is this rose, but there is a lovelier still,” said the wise man.
“I have seen the loveliest, purest rose that blooms,” said a woman. “I
saw it on the cheeks of the queen. She had taken off her golden crown.
And in the long, dreary night she carried her sick child in her arms.
She wept, kissed it, and prayed for her child.”
“Holy and wonderful is the white rose of a mother's grief,” answered the
wise man, “but it is not the one we seek.”