1737.]

WHO COULD HAVE DONE IT?

27

"There, Pa!" said George, quite in an ecstasy of astonishment; "did you ever see such a sight in all your life-time?"

"Why, it seems like a curious affair, sure enough, George!"

"But, Pa, who did make it there? who did make it there?"

"It grew there by chance, I suppose, my son." "By chance, Papa! O no, no, it never did grow there by chance, Pa! Indeed, that it never did!" "High! why not, my son?"

"Why, Pa, did you ever see any body's name in a plant bed, before?"

"Well, but, George, such a thing might happen, though you never saw it before."

"Yes, Pa; but I did never see the little plants grow up so as to make one single letter of my name before. Now how could they grow up so as to make all the letters of my name? And then, standing one after another, to spell my name so exactly-and all so neat and even, too, at top and bottom? O, Pa, you must not say that chance did all this. Indeed, somebody did it, and I dare say, now, Pa, you did it, just to scare me, because I am your little boy."

His father smiled, and said, "Well, George, you have guessed right. I indeed did it, but not to scare you, my son; but to learn you a great thing which I wish you to understand.

*

*

*

*

As

my son could not believe that chance had made and

put together so exactly the letters of his name, (though only sixteen,) then how can he believe that chance has made and put together all those millions and millions of things that are now so exactly fitted to his good? That my son may look at every thing around him, see what fine eyes he has got! and a little pug nose to smell the sweet flowers, and pretty ears to hear sweet sounds, and a lovely mouth for his bread and butter, and O, the little ivory teeth to cut it for him, and the dear little tongue to prattle for his father! and precious little hands and fingers to hold his play-things, and beautiful little feet for him to run about upon.

"And when my little rogue of a son is tired of running about, then the still night comes for him to lie down, and his mother sings and the little crickets chirp him to sleep; and as soon as he has slept enough, and jumps up fresh and strong as a little buck, there the sweet, golden light is ready for him. When he looks down into the water, there he sees the beautiful silver fishes for him, and, up in the trees, there are the apples and peaches, and thousands of sweet fruits for him; and all, all around him, wherever my dear boy looks, he sees every thing just to his wants and wishes; the bubbling springs with cool, sweet water for him to drink; and the wood to make him sparkling fires when he is cold, and beautiful horses for him to ride, and strong oxen to work for him, and the good cow to give him milk, and bees to make sweet honey for his sweeter mouth, and the little lambs, with snowy wool, to make beautiful clothes for him!

1787.]

POETRY OF COUNTRY LIFE.

29

"Now all these, and all the ten thousand other good things, more than my son can ever think of, and all so exactly fitted to his use and delight-now could chance ever have done all this for my little son?"

We need not carry our extract further, since George's full assent to the conclusion his father wished him to draw from this beautiful rural picture, may easily be taken for granted.

Without pretending that the poetic outburst should be credited to the father, or the precocious decision to the son, we must thank Mr. Weems, in the name of children yet to be, for so sweet and suggestive an enunciation of the common and unnoted things that prove God's goodness, while we accept the nucleus of the story as a family legend. That a lesson to a bright little boy of five years old should be given in such a form, is not so unlikely in the country as it would be in town. Intelligent people who live in the country are generally very fond of it, and their imaginations are quickened and their thoughts elevated, by familiarity with rural objects. To live much in the open air; to notice the clouds, and speculate with interest upon the weather; to depend directly for comfort and plenty upon the success of what is planted in the ground; to go into the tall, lonely, whispering woods for fuel instead of applying to the merchant for it-even the pleasant experience of the wood's noisy, genial blaze on the hearth, instead of the warmth of the forgotten coal fire- these, and many other particulars of rural life, make country

people (other things being equal) more poetical than citizens; and it is not uncommon to hear them use expressions that would sound affected, if uttered among brick walls and in a thick, smoky, business atmosphere. What is called love of the country arises partly from this, i. e. the suggestion of poetical ideas, although those who live in the country are not always those who analyze the feeling. It is an elevated one, sometimes soiled by sordid accompaniments or desperate needs. If it were not for these ill accidents, there could hardly be any cities, so natural is it for man to love a position which exalts his imagination, and brings him more directly face to face with Nature.

It cannot but be interesting to trace the progress of this little, simple boy, bred in the very plainest country style, to the eminence he attained before he passed middle life-an eminence from which he could look down on the greatest sovereigns of the earth, since his elevation was the result of merit and not of accident.*

*One of Mr. Weems's stories, too vivid and picturesque to be omitted, yet too evidently fabulous to deserve admission into the text, is given in Appendix No. 2, for the amusement of our young readers.

CHAPTER IV.

The mother of Washington-Her characteristics and those of her children-Her early estimates of her eldest son-What he was in youth-His only sister's resemblance to him-Mrs. W.'s only weakness-Simplicity of her manners-" Little George"-Obligations of great men to their mothers-Almost forgotten-Duty and virtue of Obedience.

Ir is often repeated that Mrs. Mary Washington, who was twenty-eight years old when her eldest son was born, was a beauty in her youth, and the picture of Mary Ball, now in England, justifies the claim. "The strong are born of the strong, and the good of the good," says Kepler. Her children were all tall, and their descendants still maintain the family reputation for fine, robust figures, although some of them have, like the General, a tendency to diseases of the throat and chest. George is said to have been the favorite of his mother, but we may be allowed to hope that a woman, noted for good sense and high principle, would hardly have a favorite among her children. He was her eldest, and a fine, handsome boy, endowed with