Throwing off his coat, the youth sprang to the edge of the bank. For a moment he scanned the rocks and the whirling currents. Then, as the bright red of the little boy’s dress caught his eye, he plunged into the roaring foam. Everyone watched the struggle, as he battled against the raging waters.
Twice the boy went down; twice he reappeared farther and farther away. The terrible rapids were bearing him on to the most dangerous part of the river. The youth put forth all his strength. Three times the child was almost within his grasp; three times an ever stronger eddy tossed it from him.
On the bank the people waited breathless, almost hopeless. Suddenly, the brave swimmer caught the little body. A shout of joy arose that quickly changed into a cry of horror. The boy and man had shot over the falls and vanished in the seething waters below.
The watchers ran along the bank, peering into the foaming, boiling depths.
“There! There they are!” cried the mother. “See! See, they are safe!” She fell on her knees with a prayer of thanksgiving. Eager, willing arms drew them up from the water—the boy insensible, but alive; the youth well-nigh exhausted.
“God will reward you for this day’s work,” said the grateful woman. “The blessings of thousands will be yours.” She spoke truly; for the youth of whom this story is told was George Washington.—Selected.
DOWN A MANHOLE
