The original story of little George Washington and his hatchet,
together with two other doubtful anecdotes not so well known.
On a fine morning in the fall of 1737 Mr. Washington, taking little
George by the hand, went to walk with him in the orchard, promising
to show him a fine sight. On arriving at the orchard, a fine sight
indeed was presented. The whole earth, as far as could be seen, was
strewed with fruit, and yet the trees were bending under the weight of
apples which hung in clusters like grapes, and vainly strove to hide
their blushing cheeks behind the green leaves. “Now, George,” said
his father, “look here, my son! Don’t you remember when a good cousin
of yours brought you that fine large apple last spring, how hardly I
could prevail on you to divide with your brothers and sisters; though
I promised you that if you would but do it God Almighty would give you
plenty of apples this fall?”
Poor George could not say a word, but hanging down his head, looked
quite confused, while with his little naked toes he scratched in the
soft ground. “Now look up, my son,” continued his father, “look up,
George, and see there how richly the blessed God has made good my
promise to you. Wherever you turn your eyes you see the trees loaded
with fine fruit, many of them indeed breaking down; 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 wide wilderness of fruit. He marked
the busy humming bees, and heard the gay notes of birds; then, lifting
his eyes filled with shining moisture, to his father, he softly said,
“Well, Pa, only forgive me this time, and see if I ever be so stingy
any more.”
* * * * *
When George was about six years old he was made the wealthy master
of a _hatchet_, of which, like most little boys, he was immoderately
fond; and was constantly going about chopping everything that came in
his way. One day, in the garden, where he often amused himself hacking
his mother’s pea-sticks, he unluckily tried the edge of his hatchet
on the body of a beautiful young English cherry tree, which he barked
so terribly that I don’t believe the tree ever got the better of it.
The next morning, the old gentleman, finding out what had befallen his
tree, which, by the by, was a great favorite, came into the house;
and with much warmth asked for the mischievous author, declaring
at the same time that he would not have taken five guineas for his
tree. Nobody could tell him anything about it. Presently George and
his hatchet made their appearance. “George,” said his father, “do
you know who killed that beautiful little cherry tree yonder in the
garden?” This was a tough question, and George staggered under it for
a moment; but quickly recovered himself, and looking at his father,
with the sweet face of youth brightened with the inexpressible charm of
all-conquering truth, he bravely cried out, “I can’t tell a lie, Pa,
you know I can’t tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet.”
“Run to my arms, you dearest boy,” cried his father; “such an act in my
son is worth more than a thousand trees, though blossomed with silver,
and their fruits of purest gold.”
* * * * *
To startle George into a lively sense of his Maker, his father fell
upon the following very curious but impressive expedient:
One day he went into the garden and prepared a little bed of finely
pulverized earth, on which he wrote George’s name at full, in large
letters, then strewing in plenty of cabbage seed, he covered them up,
and smoothed all over nicely with the roller. This bed he purposely
prepared close alongside a gooseberry walk, which happening at this
time to be well hung with ripe fruit, he knew would be honored with
George’s visits pretty regularly every day. Not many mornings had
passed away before in came George, with eyes wild rolling and his
little cheeks ready to burst with great news.
“Oh, Pa! come here, come here!”
“What’s the matter, my son? What’s the matter?”
“Oh, come here, I tell you, Pa: come here, and I’ll show you such a
sight as you never saw in all your lifetime!”
The old gentleman, suspecting what George would be at, gave him his
hand, which he seized with great eagerness, and tugging him along
through the garden, led him point blank to the bed whereon was
inscribed, in large letters, and in all the freshness of newly sprung
plants, the full name of