"That's like a woman's reasoning-we must, because we She softly said: "I reason not; I only work and trust; The harvest may redeem the day—keep heart whate'er betide; When one door shuts, I've always seen another open wide. There is a Heart, there is a Hand, we feel, but cannot see: We've always been provided for, and we shall always be." He kissed the calm and trustful face; gone was his restless pain. She heard him with a cheerful step go whistling down the lane, And went about her household tasks full of a glad con tent, Singing to time her busy hands as to and fro she went: "There is a Heart, there is a Hand, we feel, but cannot see: We've always been provided for, and we shall always be." Days come and go-'twas Christmas-tide, and the great fire burned clear. The farmer said: "Dear wife, it's been a good and happy year; The fruit was gain, the surplus corn has bought the hay, you know." She lifted then a smiling face, and said: "I told you so! For there's a Heart, and there's a Hand, we feel, but can not see: We've always been provided for, and we shall always be.” "GEORGE WASHIN'TON!" answer floated From down the hill the up, muffled by the distance: "Ma'm?" "Come heah, sah!" Aunt Polly folded her arms and leaned against the doorway, and waited for the appearance of her son and heir above the edge of the hill on which her cabin stood. The crown of a ragged straw hat surmounting a dusky face first appeared, followed by a pair of shoulders covered with a nondescript shirt; then, as he climbed the incline, there rose gradually to his mother's view a pair of large and heavy trousers in an advanced state of dilapidation; and dragging slowly along, as if unwilling to follow the body, two bare, black feet; and thus, fully revealed from top to toe, came a solemn and dirty little darkey. His mother's eyes rested on him with a sparkle of indignation in them. "George Washin'ton," she said, "you sartainly is de laziest nigger I eber see. How long, sah, does you s'pose you was a-comin' up dat hill? You don' no? I don', nether; 'twas so long I los' all count. You'll bring yore mudder's gray har in sorrer to de grabe yet, wid yore pokin' and slowness, see if you don'. Heah I is waitin' and a-waitin' on you fur to go down to old Mass' Cunnin'ham's wid dose tings. Take 'em to de young city man boardin' dar, and tell him dese is his clean close dat your old mudder washed, and dat dey comes to fifty cents. And if you let de grass grow under yore feet, George Washin❜ton, or spiles dese close, or loses dat fifty cents, I'll break yore bones, chile, when you come home. You heah dat?" George Washington nodded. He never exhausted himself in unnecessary speech. He was a strange, silent child, with a long, solemn face and chronic toothache, or jawache, for he never appeared without a white rag tied up over his ears, and terminating in two flopping ends of equal length on the top of his head-an adornment that gave him the look of an aged rabbit, black in the face and gray in the ears. On the present occasion, his mother freshened up his toilet by tying another rag around his jaws, and giving him the basket containing the "young city man's" beautifully laundried linen, and a final injunction to be careful, started him safely off. George Washington rested his basket on his hip, and jogged along. Meditations as to what his mother might have for supper on the strength of the fifty cents brightened his visage and accelerated his steps. His fancy reveled in visions of white biscuit and crisp bacon floating in its own grease. He was gravely weighing the relative merits of spring chicken fried and more elderly chicken stewed, when There was only one muddy place on George Washington's route to town. That was down at the foot of the hill, by the railroad track. Why should his feet slip from under him, and he go sliding into the mud right there? It was too bad. It did not hurt him ; but those shirts and shining collars, alas! Some of them tumbled out, and he lifted them up all spattered and soiled. He sat down and contemplated the situation with an expression of speechless solemnity. He was afraid to go back, and he was afraid to go on, but he would rather face the "city man" than his mother; and with a sigh he lifted the linen to its place, and trudged on. The young folks at " Mass' Cunnin'ham's" sent him to the boarder's room with many a jest on his slowness; and he shook his ragged clothes when the young man lifted the things from the basket to put them away. He exclaimed in anger at their soiled appearance, and, of course, immediately bundled them back into the basket. 'Here, George," he said, "take these back to your mother to wash; and don't you dare, you little vagabond, ever bring such looking things to me again!" Slowly the namesake of our illustrious countryman climbed the hill toward home; slowly he entered and set down his basket. The rapidity with which he emerged from the door, about three minutes later, might have led a stranger to believe that it was a different boy. But it was not. It was the saine George. The next afternoon came around, and George Washington again departed on his errand. No thoughts of supper or good things ran rife in his brain to-day. He attended strictly to business. His mother, standing in the doorway, called after him : "Be keerful, George Washin'ton, 'bout de train. I heer'd it at de upper junction jess now. It'll be long trectly." He George Washington nodded and disappeared. crossed the muddy place in safety, and breathed more freely. He was turning toward town, when something on the railroad track caught his eye. There lay the big rock that had been on the hill above ever since he could remember; it was right in the middle of the track. He wondered how the coming train would get over it. Across on the other side, the hill sloped down to a deep ravine. What if the big rock pushed the train off! His heart gave a great jump. He had heard them talk of an accident once, where many people were killed. He thought of running to tell somebody, but it was a good way to the next house, and just then he heard the train faintly; it was too late for that. Just above, in the direction that the train was coming, was a sharp curve. It could not stop if it came tearing round that, and on the other side of the bend was a very high trestle that made him sick to look at. The slow, dull boy stood and trembled. In a moment more he had set his basket carefully in the bush, and ran around the curve. At the edge of the trestle he paused, and then dropping on his hands and knees crept, as fast as he could, over the dizzy height to the other side. He staggered to his feet, and ran on. When the train dashed in sight, the engineer spied a small object on the track pointing frantically behind him. The child ran away from the track, but continued to wave and point and shout. The train whistled and slackened. George Washington, hatless and breathless, was jerked into the engine, where he gasped: "Big rock on de track round de curve!" The train was moved slowly over the trestle, and stopped in the curve; and there, indeed, was the rock that might have hurled them all down to death, but for that ridiculous-looking little boy. Meanwhile in the cabin Aunt Polly was restless, and concluded to go down to the foot of the hill and wait for George Washington. Behold, then, as she appeared down the path, the sight that met her gaze. "What's dis boy bin a-doin'? I'se his mudder. I is. What's dis mean?" On this identical train was the president of the road. "Why, auntie," he said, "you have a boy to be proud of. He crept over the high trestle and warned the train, and maybe saved all our lives. He is a hero." Aunt Polly was dazed. "A hearo," she said, "dat's a big t'ing for a little black nigger. George Washin'ton, whar's dat basket?" "In de bushes, mammy; I'se gwine for to get it." The train was nearly ready to be off. The president called Aunt Polly aside, and she came back with a beaming face, and five ten-dollar bills clutched in her hands. Aunt Polly caught George in her arms. "Dey sed you was a hearo, George Washin'ton, but you is yore mammy's own boy, and you shall hab chicken for yore supper dis berry night, and a whole poun' cake to-morrow; yes, you shall!" And when George Washington returned the gentleman his washing, he, like his namesake, was a hero. ABRIDGED FROM YOUTH'S COMPANION. LADY WENTWORTH. ONE hundred years ago, and something more, Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine. |