Part 2 (2/2)
”My own pony, Prince.”
”Did you meet d.i.c.k exercising the horses?”
”No; I didn't see anything of him.”
”That is strange. Where were you riding to?”
”I was off on a little business beyond the moor.”
”Beyond the moor! what can you have been wanting beyond the moor?”
Amos turned red and did not reply.
”I don't know what has come to the boy,” said the squire surlily. But now Walter, who had not uttered a word hitherto, broke in suddenly, ”Father, you mustn't be hard upon d.i.c.k. It's a misfortune, after all.
There isn't a better rider anywhere; only accidents will happen sometimes, as you know they did the other night. Forester bolted when the little girl's red cloak blew off and flapped right on to his eyes.
d.i.c.k was not expecting it, and tried to keep the horses in; but Forester sprang right through a hedge and staked himself before d.i.c.k could pull him in. It's a mercy, I think, that d.i.c.k hadn't his neck broke.”
He said these last words slowly and reluctantly, for his eye had rested on his aunt's hands, which were being laid quietly one across the other on the table in front of her.
”Red cloak!” exclaimed the squire; ”why, d.i.c.k told me it was a boy's hat that blew off and flapped against Forester's eyes.”
”Ah! well, father, it may have been a hat. I thought he said a cloak; but it comes pretty much to the same thing.”
There was an unsteadiness about the boy's voice as he said these last words which every one noticed except his father. The subject, however, was now dropped, and was not again alluded to during the evening.
Next morning after breakfast Walter knocked at his aunt's door. When he had entered and taken the offered chair by her side, he sat for a minute or so with eyes cast down, and silent.
”Well, Walter,” she said after a while.
”_Ill_, auntie,” he replied, in a voice between a laugh and a sigh.
”What is it, dear Walter?”
”Only those two hands of yours, dear auntie.”
”Was there not a cause, Walter?”
No reply.
”Shall I tell you one of the stories you asked me to tell about moral courage?”
”Do, auntie dear,” he said in a low tearful voice.
”My hero this morning, Walter, is George Was.h.i.+ngton, the great American general and statesman, the man who had so much to do in the founding of that great republic which is called the United States. A braver man never lived; but he was a brave boy too, brave with moral courage. Not that he wanted natural courage in his early years, for at school none could beat him in leaping, wrestling, swimming, and other athletic exercises. When he was about six years old, his father gave him a new hatchet one day. George was highly pleased, and went about cutting and hacking everything in his way. Unfortunately, amongst other things he used the hatchet with all the force of his little arm on a young English cherry tree, which happened to be a great favourite with his father.
Without thinking of the mischief he was doing, George greatly injured the valuable tree. When his father saw what was done he was very angry, and asked the servants who had dared to injure the tree. They said they knew nothing of it; when little George entering the room and hearing the inquiry, though he saw that his father was very angry, went straight up to him, his cheeks colouring crimson as he spoke, and cried, 'I did it.
I cannot tell a lie. I cut your cherry tree with my hatchet.' 'My n.o.ble boy,' said his father, as he clasped him in his arms, 'I would rather lose a hundred cherry-trees, were their blossoms of silver and their fruit of gold, than that a son of mine should dare to tell a lie.'--Dear Walter, that was true n.o.ble courage; and George Was.h.i.+ngton grew up with it. Those are beautiful lines of one of our old poets, George Herbert,--
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