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It is fortunate that the materials of Washington's early life were preserved by one who was rector of the Mount Vernon parish while members of the family and other friends survived. Rev. M. L. Weems ministered there seventy-five years ago, and he gathered information from a woman who was neighbor to the Washingtons in her childhood, and from John Fitzhugh, who was often with George in his early home. In addition, descendants of the family, who had fondly preserved valuable incidents of their illustrious ancestor's boyhood and manhood, furnished them for his biography by their pastor. We are indebted to Mr. Weems for most of the facts relating to Washington's boyhood.

In the autumn of 1737, Mr. Washington went to the door of a neighbor and relative, leading George by the hand. The woman who related the incident to Mr. Weems was a little girl at that time, and was visiting the family.

"Will you take a walk with us?" inquired George's father, addressing himself to the girl just mentioned, and her cousin, whose name was Washington.

"We are going to take a walk in the orchard," continued Mr. Washington. "It is a fine sight now."

Both of the parties addressed promptly accepted the invitation, delighted to take a stroll among the trees that were bending under their burden of fruit.

A walk of a half-mile brought them to the orchard, where an unusual spectacle awaited them.

"Oh, see the apples!" exclaimed George. "Such a lot of them!" And he clapped his hands and fairly danced in his excitement.

"I never saw such a sight," said the girl who accompanied them.

"It is a spectacle, indeed!" responded Mr. Washington. "It is not often we see so much fruit in one field as we see here."

It was not so much the enormous crop of apples upon the trees, as it was the great quantity on the ground beneath them that attracted George. The winds had relieved the trees of a portion of their burden, and the ground was literally covered with the luscious fruit. George had never beheld such a display of apples, and his young heart bounded with delight over the scene.

They roamed through the orchard for a time, chatting and enjoying the occasion thoroughly, when Mr. Washington rather disturbed the flow of animal spirits by saying—

"Now, George, look here, my son! Don't you remember when this good cousin of yours (referring to the lad who was with them) brought you that fine large apple last spring, how hardly I could prevail on you to divide it with your brothers and sisters, though I promised you that if you would but do it God would give you plenty of apples this fall."

George made no reply but hung his head in shame. He had not forgotten his selfishness on that occasion, and he was greatly mortified.

His father continued—

"Now, look up, my son; look up, George! See 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 life-time."

George made no reply. His young companions stood in silence, gazing at him, as if wondering what all this counsel meant. Mr. Washington waited for his son to speak; and just as he was concluding that George had nothing to say for himself, the latter turned manfully to his father, and said:

"Well, pa, only forgive me this time, and see if I am ever stingy any more."

Mr. Washington had a purpose in going to the orchard, and it was well accomplished. His son got one nobler idea into his head, and one nobler resolve into his heart. Henceforth the noble boy would treat selfishness as a foe instead of a friend.

Mr. Washington resorted to the following device to impress his son with a proper conception of God as the Creator of all things. In the spring he carefully prepared a bed in the garden, beside the walk, where George would frequently go for pleasure. When the bed was prepared, he wrote George's name in full in the pulverized earth, and sowed the same with cabbage seed. In due time, of course, the seed appeared in green, thrifty shoots, forming the letters as clearly as they stand in the alphabet. George discovered them one day. He was then seven or eight years old. He stood for a moment in silent wonder.

"Those are letters sure enough," he thought.

Then he read them aloud, "G-E-O-R-G-E W-A-S-H-I-N-G-T-O-N."

With wondering eyes he rushed to the house, and excitedly broke the news.

"Oh, pa, come here! come here!"

"What's the matter, my son? what's the matter?" responded his father.

"Oh, come here, I tell you, pa; come here!" and the boy could scarcely contain himself, so great was his excitement.

"But what is it, my son? Can't you tell me what has happened?"

"Come here, and I'll show you the greatest sight you ever saw in your life!"

By this time he was pulling his father along towards the garden, the latter understanding full well what had happened. Very soon they reached the bed, where the bright, thrifty cabbage plants had spelled the name of GEORGE WASHINGTON in full.

"There, pa!" exclaimed George, pointing to his name in cabbage plants, and exhibiting the greatest astonishment by his appearance. "Did you ever see such a sight in all your life-time?"

"Well, George, it does seem like a curious affair sure enough," his father answered. "But who should make it there, pa? Who made it there?"

"Why, it grew there, of course, my son."

"No, pa! No, no! somebody put it there."

"Then you think it did not grow there by chance?"

"No, indeed, it never did. That couldn't be."

"How is that, my son? Don't it look very much like chance?"

"Why, no, pa; did you ever know anybody's name in a plant bed before?"

"Well, George, might not such a thing happen though I never saw it before?"

"Yes, pa; but I never saw plants grow up so as to make a single letter of my name before. How could they grow up so as to make all the letters of my name! And all standing one after another so as to spell my name exactly—and all so nice and even, too, at top and bottom! Somebody did it. You did it, pa, to scare me, because I am your little boy."

"Well, George, you have guessed right," answered Mr. Washington. "I did do it, but not to scare you, my son, but to teach you a great truth which I wish you to understand. I want to introduce you to your true Father."

"Ain't you my true father, pa?"

"Yes, I am your father, George, as the world calls it, and love you with a father's love. Yet, with all my love for you, I am but a poor father in comparison with your true Father."

"I know well enough whom you mean," continued George. "You mean God, don't you?"

"Yes, I mean Him, indeed, my son. He is your true Father," was Mr. Washington's hearty answer.

George went on with his inquiries, and his father, answered, adding at last:

"Well, then, as you could not believe that chance had made and put together so exactly the letters of your name (though only sixteen), then how can you believe that chance could have made and put together all those millions and millions of things that are now so exactly fitted for your good! Eyes to see with; ears to hear with; nose to smell with; a mouth to eat with; teeth to bite with; hands to handle with; feet to walk with; a mind to think with; a heart to love with; a home to live in; parents to care for you, and brothers and sisters to love you! Why, look at this beautiful world in which you live, with its golden, light to cheer you by day, and its still night to wrap you in sleep when you are too tired to play; its fruits, and flowers and fields of grass and grain; its horses to draw you and cows to give you milk; its sheep to furnish wool to cloth you, and meat for your food; its sun, moon and stars to comfort you; bubbling springs to quench your thirst; wood to burn that you may be warm in winter; and ten thousand other good things—so many that my son could never number them all, or even think of them! Could chance bring about all these things so exactly as to suit your wants and wishes?"

"No, pa, chance could not do it," answered George, really taking in this new view of the world around him.

"What was it, then, do you think, my son?" continued his father.

"God did it," George replied.

"Yes, George, it is all the work of God, and nobody else," responded his father. "He gives us all."

"Does God give me everything? Don't you give me some things?" George inquired.

"I give you something!" exclaimed his father. "How can I give you anything, George? I who have nothing on earth I can call my own; no, not even the breath I draw!"

"Ain't the house yours, and the garden, and the horses and oxen and sheep?" still inquired George, failing to comprehend the great truth of God's ownership.

"Oh, no, my son, no! Why, you make me shrink into nothing, George, when you talk of all these things belonging to me, who can't even make a grain of sand! How could I give life to the oxen and horses, when I can't give life even to a fly, my son?"

George was introduced into a new world by this lesson, as his father intended that he should be. His precocious mind grasped, finally, the great idea of his "true Father," and the lesson never had to be repeated.

We have rehearsed this incident somewhat in detail as given by Mr. Weems, because its influence will be found interwoven with George's future private and public life.

Another story told by Mr. Weems is the famous hatchet story, which has been rehearsed to so many children, since that day, to rebuke falsehood and promote truth-telling.

His father made him a present of a hatchet with which George was especially delighted. Of course he proceeded forthwith to try it, first hacking his mother's pea-sticks, and, finally, trying its edge upon the body of a beautiful "English cherry-tree." Without understanding that he was destroying the tree, he chopped away upon it to his heart's content, leaving the bark, if not the solid wood underneath, in a very dilapidated condition. The next morning his father discovered the trespass, and, rushing into the house, under much excitement, he exclaimed:

"My beautiful cherry-tree is utterly ruined. Who could hack it in that manner?"

Nobody knew.

"I would not have taken five guineas for it," he added, with a long-drawn sigh. The words had scarcely escaped from his lips before George appeared with his hatchet.

"George," said his father, "do you know who killed that cherry-tree in the garden?"

George had not stopped to think, until that moment, that he had used his hatchet improperly. His father's question was a revelation to him; and he hung his head in a guilty manner for a moment.

"George, did you do it?" urged his father.

Raising his head, and looking his father fully in the face, he replied:

"I can't tell a lie, pa; you know I can't tell a lie, I did cut it with my hatchet."

Mr. Washington was well-nigh overcome by this frank and honest reply. For a moment he stood spell bound; then recovering himself, he exclaimed:

"Come to my arms, my boy! You have paid for the cherry-tree a thousand times over. Such an act of heroism is worth more to me than a thousand trees!"

Mr. Weems regards this honest confession the out-growth of previous instructions upon the sin of lying and the beauty of truthfulness. He represents Mr. Washington as saying to his son:

"Truth, George, is the loveliest quality of youth. I would ride fifty miles, my son, to see the little boy whose heart is so honest, and his lips so pure, that we may depend on every word he says."

"But, oh, how different, George, is the case with the boy who is so given to lying that nobody can believe a word he says. He is looked at with aversion wherever he goes, and parents dread to see him come among their children. O George, rather than see you come to this pass, dear as you are to me, I would follow you to your grave."

Here George protested against being charged with lying. "Do I ever tell lies?" he asked.

"No, George, I thank God you do not; and I rejoice in the hope that you never will. At least, you shall never, from me, have cause to be guilty of so shameful a thing. You know I have always told you, and now tell you again, that, whenever by accident you do anything wrong, which must often be the case, as you are but a little boy, without experience or knowledge, never tell a falsehood to conceal it; but come bravely up, and tell me of it; and your confession will merit love instead of punishment."