at Philadelphia, to see what could be done. Washington was sent from
Virginia. And after they had talked very solemnly, they all thought
there would be great trouble soon, and Washington went home to drill the
soldiers.
Then the war began with the battle of Lexington, in New England, and
soon Washington was made commander in chief of the armies.
He rode the whole distance from Philadelphia to Boston on horseback,
with a troop of officers; and all the people on the way came to see him,
bringing bands of music and cheering him as he went by. He rode into
camp in the morning. The soldiers were drawn up in the road, and men and
women and children who had come to look at Washington were crowded all
about. They saw a tall, splendid, handsome man in a blue coat with buff
facings, and epaulets on his shoulders. As he took off his hat, drew his
shining sword and raised it in sight of all the people, the cannon began
to thunder, and all the people hurrahed and tossed their hats in the
air.
Of course he looked very splendid, and they all knew how brave he was,
and thought he would soon put an end to the war.
But it did not happen as they expected, for this was only the beginning,
and the war lasted seven long years.
Fighting is always hard, even if you have plenty of soldiers and plenty
for them to eat; but Washington had very few soldiers, and very little
powder for the guns, and little food for the men to eat.
The soldiers were not in uniform, as ours are to-day; but each was
dressed just as he happened to come from his shop or his farm.
Washington ordered hunting shirts for them, such as he wore when he went
to fight the Indians, for he knew they would look more like soldiers if
all were dressed alike.
Of course many people thought that our men would be beaten, as the war
went on; but Washington never thought so, for he was sure our side was
right.
I hardly know what he would have done, at last, if the French people had
not promised to come over and help us, and to send us money and men and
ships. All the people in the army thanked God when they heard it, and
fired their guns for joy.
A brave young man named Lafayette came with the French soldiers, and he
grew to be Washington's great friend, and fought for us all through the
Revolution.
Many battles were fought in this war, and Washington lost some of them,
and a great many of his men were killed.
You could hardly understand how much trouble he had. In the winter, when
the snow was deep on the ground, he had no houses or huts for his men to
sleep in; his soldiers were ragged and cold by day, and had not blankets
enough to keep them warm by night; their shoes were old and worn, and
they had to wrap cloths around their feet to keep them from freezing.
When they marched to the Delaware River, one cold Christmas night, a
soldier who was sent after them, with a message for Washington, traced
them by their footprints on the snow, all reddened with the blood from
their poor cut feet.
They must have been very brave and patient to have fought at all, when
they were so cold and ragged and hungry.
Washington suffered a great deal in seeing his soldiers so wretched, and
I am sure that, with all his strength and courage, he would sometimes
have given up hope, if he had not talked and prayed to God a great deal,
and asked Him to help him.
In one of the hardest times of the whole war, Washington was staying
at a farmer's house. One morning, he rode out very early to visit the
soldiers. The farmer went into the fields soon after, and as he was
passing a brook where a great many bushes were growing, he heard a deep
voice from the thicket. He looked through the leaves, and saw Washington
on his knees, on the ground, praying to God for his soldiers. He had
fastened his horse to a tree, and come away by himself to ask God to
help them.
At last the war came to an end; the English were beaten, and our armies
sent up praise and thanks to God.
Then the soldiers went quietly back to their homes, and Washington bade
all his officers good-by, and thanked them for their help and their
courage.
The little room in New York where he said farewell is kept to show to
visitors now, and you can see it some day yourselves.
Then Washington went home to Mt. Vernon to rest; but before he had been
there long, the people found out that they must have some one to help
take care of them, as they had nothing to do with the king of England
any more; and they asked Washington to come and be the first President
of the United States.
So he did as they wished, and was as wise and good, and as careful and
fine a President as he had been surveyor, soldier, and general.
You know we always call Washington the Father of his Country, because he
did so much for us and helped to make the United States so great.
After he died, there were parks and mountains and villages and towns and
cities named for him all over the land, because people loved him so and
prized so highly what he had done for them.
In the city of Washington there is a building where you can see many
of the things that belonged to the first President, when he was alive.
There is his soldier's coat, his sword, and in an old camp chest are the
plates and knives and forks that he used in the Revolution.
There is a tall, splendid monument of shining gray stone in that city,
that towers far, far above all the highest roofs and spires. It was
built in memory of George Washington, by the people of the United
States, to show that they loved and would always remember the Father of
his Country.
THE MAPLE-LEAF AND THE VIOLET.
“Story-telling must please children, so that it will influence,
strengthen, and elevate their lives.”--FROEBEL
The Maple-tree lived on the edge of the wood. Beside and behind her
the trees grew so thick and tall that there was plenty of shade at her
roots; but as no one stood in front, she could always look across the
meadows to the brown house where Bessie lived, and could see what went
on in the world.
After the cold winter had gone by, and the spring had come again,
the Maple-tree sent out thousands of tiny leaf-buds, that stretched
themselves, and grew larger day by day in the warm sunshine. One little
Bud, on the end of a tall branch, worked so hard to grow that by and by
he finished opening all his folds, and found himself a tiny pale green
leaf.
He was curious, as little folks generally are, and as soon as he opened
his eyes wanted to see everything about him. First he looked up at the
blue sky overhead, but the sky only looked quietly back at him. Then
he looked across the meadows to where Bessie lived, but Bessie was at
school and the house was still.
Then he gazed far down below him on the ground; and there, just beneath,
was a little Violet, She had uncurled her purple petals a few days
before, and was waiting to welcome the first leaf-bud that came out.
So when the Maple-leaf looked down, she smiled up at him and said,
“Good-morning.” He answered her politely, but he was very little, and
did not know quite what to say, so he didn't talk any more that day.
The next morning they greeted each other again, and soon they grew to be
good friends, and talked together very happily all day. The Maple-leaf
lived so high up in the tree that he could easily see across the fields,
and he watched every day for Bessie as she started for school. When she
came out of her door, he told the Violet, and the Violet always said
every morning, “Dear Bessie! I should like to see her, too!”
Sometimes, when the day was chilly and it was almost too damp in the
shade, the Violet used to wish she might be high up on the branch above
her, waving about in the sunshine like the Maple-leaf; but she was a
contented little thing, and never fretted long for what she could not
have.
It was generally pleasant on the ground, and the bugs and caterpillars
and worms, as they crawled about at her roots, often told her very
interesting things about their families and their troubles.
One day it was very dry and warm. The Maple-leaf was not at all
comfortable, high in the hot air, and he said to his mother,
“Mother-tree, won't you let me go down by the Violet and be cool?”
Then the Maple-tree answered, “No, no, little leaf, not now; if I once
let you go, you can never come back again. Stay quietly here; the time
will soon come for you to leave me.”
The Maple-leaf told this to the Violet, and then they began to fear that
when the mother-tree let him go, by and by, he might not be able to fall
close beside the Violet.
So the next day, when the wind came whistling along, the Violet asked
him if he would kindly take care of the leaf, and send him to her when
the mother-tree let him go. The wind was rough and careless, and said he
really didn't know. He couldn't be sure how he'd feel then. They would
have to wait and see.
The two little friends were rather unhappy about this, but they waited
quietly. By and by the weather grew cold. The air was so chill that the
Maple-leaf shivered in the night, and in the morning, when the sun rose,
and he could see himself, he found he was all red, just as your hands
and cheeks are on a frosty morning. When the mother-tree saw him, she
told him he would soon leave her now, and she bade him good-by. He
was sorry to go, but then he thought of his dear Violet, and was happy
again.
By and by a gust of cold wind came blowing by, and twisted the little
leaf about, and fluttered him so that he could not hold to the tree any
longer. So at last he blew off, and the wind took him up and danced with
him and played with him until he was very tired and dizzy. But at last,
for he was a kind wind after all, he blew the leaf back, straight to the
side of the Violet. How close they cuddled to each other, and how happy
they were! You would have been very glad if you had seen them together.
In the morning, when the sun rose yellow and bright, Bessie came into
the woods with a basket and a trowel. It was nearly winter, and she knew
that soon the snow would fall and cover all the pretty growing things.
So she dug up, very carefully, roots of plumy fern and partridge berries
with their leaves, and wintergreen and boxberry plants, to grow in her
window-garden in the winter. She took the Violet too, bringing away so
much of the earth around her roots that the little thing scarcely felt
that she had been moved. As Bessie put her plants in the basket, she
saw the little Maple-leaf resting close by the violet, but he looked so
pretty, lying there, that she did not move him.
In the sunny window of the little brown house the Violet grew still
more fresh and green. But each day, as the plants were watered, the
Maple-leaf curled up a little more at the edges, and sank down farther
into the earth, until soon he was almost out of sight, and by and by
crumbled quite away. Still he was close beside his Violet, and all the
strength he had he gave to her roots.
She always loved him just the same, though she could not see him any
longer, and by and by, when she had lived her life, and her leaves
withered away, each one, as it fell from the stem, sank into the earth
where the Maple-leaf lay.
MRS. CHINCHILLA.
THE TALE OF A CAT.
“See what joyous faces, what shining eyes, and what glad jubilee welcome
the story-teller, and what a blooming circle of glad children press
around him!”--FROEBEL.
Mrs. Chinchilla was not a lovely lady, with a dress of soft gray cloth
and a great chinchilla muff and boa. Not at all. Mrs. Chinchilla was
a beautiful cat, with sleek fur like silver-gray satin, and a very
handsome tail to match, quite long enough to brush the ground when she
walked. She didn't live in a house, but she had a very comfortable home
in a fine drug-store, with one large bay-window almost to herself and
her kittens. She had three pretty fat dumplings of kittens, all in soft
shades of gray like their mother. She didn't like any other color in
kittens so well as a quiet ladylike gray. None of her children ever were
black, or white, or yellow, but sometimes they had four snow-white socks
on their gray paws. Mrs. Chinchilla didn't mind that, for white socks
were really a handsome finish to a gray kitten, though, of course, it
was a deal of trouble to keep them clean.
At the time my story begins the kits were all tiny catkins, whose eyes
had been open only a day or two, so Mrs. Chinchilla had to wash them
every morning herself. She had the most wonderful tongue! I'll tell
you what that tongue had in it: a hair-brush, a comb, a tooth-brush,
a nail-brush, a sponge, a towel, and a cake of soap! And when Mrs.
Chinchilla had finished those three little catkins, they were as fresh
and sweet, and shiny and clean, and kissable and huggable, as any baby
just out of a bath-tub.
One morning, just after the little kits had had their scrub in the sunny
bay-window, they felt, all at once, old enough to play; and so they
began to scramble over each other, and run about between the great
colored glass jars, and even to chase and bite the ends of their own
tails. They had not known that they had any tails before that morning,
and of course it was a charming surprise. Mrs. Chinchilla looked on
lazily and gravely. It had been a good while since she had had time or
had felt young and gay enough to chase her tail, but she was very glad
to see the kittens enjoy themselves harmlessly.
Now, while this was going on, some one came up to the window and looked
in. It was the Boy who lived across the street. Mrs. Chinchilla disliked
nearly all boys, but she was afraid of this one. He had golden curls and
a Fauntleroy collar, and the sweetest lips that ever said prayers, and
clean dimpled hands that looked as if they had been made to stroke cats
and make them purr. But instead of stroking them he rubbed their fur the
wrong way, and hung tin kettles to their tails, and tied handkerchiefs
over their heads. When Mrs. Chinchilla saw the Boy she humped her back,
so that it looked like a gray mountain, and said, “Sftt!” three times.
When the Boy found that she was looking at him, and lashing her tail,
and yawning so as to show him her sharp white teeth, he suddenly
disappeared from sight. So Mrs. Chinchilla gave the kittens their
breakfast, and they cuddled themselves into a round ball, and went fast
asleep. They were first rolled so tightly, and then so tied up with
their tails, that you couldn't have told whether they were three or six
little catkins. When their soft purr-r-r-r, purr-r-r-r had first
changed into sleepy little snores, and then died away altogether, Mrs.
Chinchilla jumped down out of the window, and went for her morning
airing in the back yard. At the same time the druggist passed behind a
tall desk to mix some medicine, and the shop was left alone.
Just then the Boy (for he hadn't gone away at all; he had just stooped
out of sight) rushed in the door quickly, snatched one of the kittens
out of the round ball, and ran away with it as fast as he could run.
Pretty soon Mrs. Chinchilla came back, and of course she counted the
kittens the very first thing. She always did it. To her surprise and
fright she found only two instead of three. She knew she couldn't be
mistaken. There were five kittens in her last family, and two less in
this family; and five kittens less two kittens is three kittens. One
chinchilla catkin gone! What should she do?
She had once heard a lady say that there were too many cats in the
world already, but she had no patience with people who made such wicked
speeches. Her kittens had always been so beautiful that they sometimes
sold for fifty cents apiece, and none of them had ever been drowned.
Mrs. Chinchilla knew in a second just where that kitten had gone. It
makes a pussy-cat very quick and bright and wise to take care of and
train large families of frisky kittens, with very little help from their
father in bringing them up. She knew that that Boy had carried off the
kitten, and she intended to have it back, and scratch the Boy with some
long scratches, if she could only get the chance. Looking at her claws,
she found them nice and sharp, and as the druggist opened the door for a
customer Mrs. Chinchilla slipped out, with just one backward glance, as
much as to say, “Gone out; will be back soon.” Then she dashed across
the street, and waited on the steps of the Boy's house. Very soon a
man came with a bundle, and when the house-maid opened the door Mrs.
Chinchilla walked in. She hadn't any visiting-card with her; but then
the Boy hadn't left any card when he called for the kitten, so she
didn't care for that.
The housemaid didn't see her when she slipped in. It was a very nice
house to hold such a heartless boy, she thought. The parlor door was
open, but she knew the kitten wouldn't be there, so she ran upstairs.
When she reached the upper hall she stood perfectly still, with her
ears up and her whiskers trembling. Suddenly she heard a faint mew, then
another, and then a laugh; that was the Boy. She pushed open a door that
was ajar, and walked into the nursery. The Boy was seated in the middle
of the floor, tying the kitten to a tin cart, and the poor little thing
was mewing piteously. Mrs. Chinchilla dashed up to the Boy, scratched
him as many long scratches as she had time for at that moment, took the
frightened kitten in her kind, gentle mouth, the way all mother-cats
do (because if they carried them in their forepaws they wouldn't
have enough left to walk on), and was downstairs and out on the front
doorstep before the housemaid had finished paying the man for the
bundle. And when she got that chinchilla catkin home in the safe, sunny
bay-window, she washed it over and over and over so many times that it
never forgot, so long as it lived, the day it was stolen by the Boy.
When the Boy's mother hurried upstairs to see why he was crying so loud,
she told him that he must expect to be scratched by mother-cats if he
stole their kittens. “I shall take your pretty Fauntleroy collar off,”
she said; “it doesn't match your disposition.”
The Boy cried bitterly until luncheon time, but when he came to think
over the matter, he knew that his mother was right, and Mrs. Chinchilla
was right, too; so he treated all mother-cats and their kittens more
kindly after that.
A STORY OF THE FOREST
“It is not the gay forms he meets in the fairy-tale which charm the
child, but a spiritual, invisible truth lying far deeper.”--Froebel.
Far away, in the depths of a great green rustling wood, there lived a
Fir-tree. She was tall and dark and fragrant; so tall that her topmost
plumes seemed waving about in the clouds, and her branches were so thick
and strong and close set that down below them on the ground it was dark
almost as night.
There were many other trees in the forest, as tall and grand as she,
and when they bent and bowed to each other, as the wind played in their
branches, you could hear a wonderful lovely sound, like the great organ
when it plays softly in the church.
Down below, under the trees, the ground was covered with a glossy brown
carpet of the sharp, needle-like leaves the fir-trees had let fall, and
on this carpet there were pointed brown fir cones lying, looking dry and
withered, and yet bearing under their scales many little seeds, hidden
away like very precious letters in their dainty envelopes.
Even on bright summer days this wood was cool and dark, and, as you
walked about on the soft brown carpet, you could hear the wonderful song
the pine needles made as they rubbed against each other; and perhaps far
away in the top of some tall tree you could hear the wood-thrush sing
out gladly.
All around the great Fir-tree, where her cones had dropped, a family
of young firs was growing up,--very tiny yet, so tiny you might have
crushed them as you walked, and not felt them under your foot.
The Fir-tree spread her thick branches over them, and kept off the
fierce wind and the bitter cold, and under her shelter they were growing
strong.
They were all fine little trees, but one of them, that stood quite apart
from the rest, was the finest of all, very straight and well shaped
and handsome. Every day he looked up at the mother-tree, and saw how
straight and strong she grew,--how the wind bent and waved her branches,
but did not stir her great trunk; and as he looked, he sent his own
rootlets farther down into the dark earth, and held his tiny head up
more proudly.
The other trees did not all try to grow strong and tall. Indeed, one of
them said, “Why should I try to grow? Who can see me here in this dark
wood? What good will it do for me to try? I can never be as fine and
strong as the mother-tree.”
So he was unhappy and hung his head, and let the wind blow him further
and further over toward the ground; and as he did not care for his
rootlets, they lost their hold in the earth, and by and by he withered
quite away.
But our brave little Fir-tree grew on; and when a long time had gone by,
his head was on a level with his mother's lowest branches, and he could
listen and hear all the whispering and talking that went on among the
great trees. So he learned many things, for the trees were old and
wise; and the birds, who are such great travelers, had told them many
wonderful things that had happened in far-off lands.
And the Fir-tree asked his mother many, many questions. “Dear
mother-tree,” he said, “shall we always live here? Shall I keep on
growing until I am a grand tall tree like you? And will you always be
with me?”
“Who knows!” said the mother-tree, rustling in all her branches. “If we
are stout-hearted, and grow strong in trunk and perfect in shape,
then perhaps we shall be taken away from the forest and made useful
somewhere,--and we want to be useful, little son.”
It was about this time that the young Fir-tree made himself some music
that he used to whisper when the winds blew and rocked his branches.
This is the little song, but I cannot sing it as he did.
SONG OF THE FIR-TREE.
Root grow thou long-er heart be thou strong-er;
Let the sun bless me, soft-ly ca-
ress me; Let rain-drops pat-ter,
wind, my leaves scat-ter. My root must grow
long-er, my heart must grow stronger.
“Root, grow thou longer,
Heart, be thou stronger;
Let the sun bless me,
Softly caress me;
Let raindrops patter,
Wind, my leaves scatter.
My root must grow longer,
My heart must grow stronger.”
And one day, when he was singing this song to himself, some birds
fluttered near, pleased with the music, and as he seemed kind they began
to build their nest in his branches,
Then what a proud Fir-tree, that the birds should choose him to take
care of them! He would not play now with the wind as it came frolicking
by, but stood straight, that he might not shake the pretty soft nest.
And when the eggs were laid at last, all his leaves stroked each other
for joy, and the noise they made was so sweet that the mother-tree bent
over to see why he was so happy.
The mother-bird sat patiently on the nest all day, and when, now and
then, she flew away to rest her tired little legs, the father-bird came
to keep the eggs warm.
So the Fir-tree was never alone; and now he asked the birds some of the
many questions he had once asked his mother, “Tell me, dear birdies,”
he said, “what does the mother-tree mean? She says if I grow strong, I
shall be taken away to be useful somewhere. How can a Fir-tree be useful
if he is taken away from the forest where he was born?”
So the birds told him how he could be useful: how perhaps men might
take him for the mast of a ship, and fasten to him, strong and firm, the
great white sails that send the ship like a bird over the water; or that
he might be used to hold a bright flag, as it waved in the wind. Then
the mother-bird thought of the happy Christmas time, for the birds
and flowers and trees know all about it; and she told the Fir of the
Christmas greens that were cut in the forest; of the branches and boughs
that were used to make the houses fresh and bright; and of the Christmas
trees, on which gifts were hung for the children.
Now the Fir-tree had seen some children one day, and he knew about their
bright eyes, and their rosy cheeks, and their dear soft little hands.
The day they came into the woods, they had made a ring and danced about
him, and one little girl had held up her finger, and asked the others to
hush and hear the song he was singing.
So of all the thing's the birds had told him, the sweetest to him was
about the Christmas tree. If only he might be a Christmas tree, and have
the children dance about him again, and feel their presents among his
green branches!
So he did all that a little tree could do to grow strong in every part,
and each day he sang his song:&&
“Root, grow thou longer,
Heart, grow thou stronger;
Sweet sunshine, bless me,
Softly caress me;
Cold raindrops, patter,
Wind, my leaves scatter,
My roots must grow longer,
My heart must grow stronger,”