The old gentleman, suspecting what George would be at, gave him his hand, which he seized with great eagerness, and tugging him along through the garden, led him point blank to the bed whereon was inscribed, in large letters, and in all the freshness of newly sprung plants, the full name of GEORGE WASHINGTON “There, Pa!” said George, quite in an ecstasy of astonishment, “did you ever see such a sight in all your lifetime?” “Why, it seems like a curious affair, sure enough, George!” “But, Pa, who did make it there? Who did make it there?” “It grew there by chance, I suppose, my son.” “By chance, Pa! Oh, no! no! It never did grow there by chance, Pa. Indeed that it never did!” “Why not, my son?” “Why, Pa, did you ever see anybody’s name in a plant bed before?” “Well, but George, such a thing might happen, though you never saw it before.” “Yes, Pa; but I did never see the little plants grow up so as to make one single letter of my name before. Now, how could they grow up so as to make _all_ the letters of my name, and then standing one after another, to spell _my_ name so exactly, and all so neat and even, too, at top and bottom! Oh, Pa, you must not say chance did all this. Indeed, _somebody_ did it; and I dare say now, Pa, _you_ did it just to scare me, because I am your little boy.” His father smiled, and said, “Well, George, you have guessed right. I indeed did it; but not to scare you, my son, but to teach you a great thing which I wish you to understand. I want, my son, to introduce you to your true Father.” “Aye! I know well enough whom you mean, Pa. You mean God Almighty, don’t you?” “Yes, my son, I mean Him indeed. He is your true Father, George, and as my son could not believe that chance had made and put together so exactly the letters of his name (though only sixteen) then how can he believe that chance could have made and put together all those millions and millions of things that are now so exactly fitted to his good.” WHEN GEORGE THE THIRD WAS KING[T] By ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS How a Philadelphia boy watched the Declaration of Independence in the making and celebrated the first Fourth of July on the Eighth. Philadelphia in July! Not even the most loyal boy or girl of that good old Quaker town but must admit that Philadelphia in July _is_ a hot place. “Warm and sunshiny,” were the words that Mr. John Nixon, in his daily journal for the year 1776, placed against the early days of July, but I am inclined to think that young Joe Nixon was nearer the fact when he called it “broiling hot.”