By this time the baby was undergoing a series of pattings and huggings at the hands of the visitor, while the delighted mother hovered over the two.
“Doesn’t she look bright? But then, she ought to be. Now my Jamie, he’s only five, and he’s the smartest boy,” and motherly pride beamed as she launched into the story.
“Jamie is the cutest chap, and can wind his father right round his little finger and lead him where he pleases. Last winter when Washington’s birthday came, I thought he was old enough to hear about the Father of his country, so I told him all about the boy George. The next morning I saw him climb up on his father’s lap and, opening his big blue eyes in that cunning way all his own, he asked:
“‘Papa, did George Washington really and truly cut down that cherry-tree?’”
“‘Yes, my son, so they say.’”
“‘And didn’t his papa whip him for being so dreadfully naughty?’ with a shake of the head to express his wonder.”
“‘No. You see, Jamie, he was proud to have a son who was brave enough to tell the truth even though he thought a whipping would follow owning up.’”
“‘Well, papa, would you whip me if I cut down a tree?’ came next from our boy.”
“‘I think not, Jamie. Yes, I’m sure I would not whip you. I would be just every bit as proud of you for telling the honest truth as George Washington’s father was of his boy.’”
“‘Say, father,’ and Jamie snuggled up closer to his father, ‘I never told you, but one day last summer I went over to Rob’s house and—and—I ate a whole bushel, almost, of mulberries!’ came the hesitating confession.” And the mother glanced around quickly to note the effect of the story on her audience.