One day—ah, can we ever cease to remember that dreamy, idle, summer afternoon—a lady friend, who was down in the city on a shopping excursion, came into the sanctum with her little son, a dear little tid-toddler of five bright summers, and begged us to amuse him while she pursued the duties which called her down town. Such a bright boy; so delightful it was to talk to him. We can never forget the blissful half-hour we spent booking that prodigy up in his centennial history. “Now, listen, Clary,” we said—his name was Clarence Fitzherbert Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers—“and learn about George Washington.” “Who’s he?” inquired Clarence, etc. “Listen,” we said; “he was the father of his country.” “Whose country?” “Ours—yours and mine; the confederated union of the American people, cemented with the life-blood of the men of ’76 poured out upon the altars of our country as the dearest libation to liberty that her votaries can offer.” “Who did?” asked Clarence. There is a peculiar tact in talking to children that very few people possess. Now most people would have grown impatient, and lost their temper, when little Clarence asked so many irrelevant questions, but we did not. We knew that, however careless he might appear at first, we could soon interest him in the story, and he would be all eyes and ears. So we smiled sweetly—that same sweet smile which you may have noticed on our photographs. Just the faintest ripple of a smile breaking across the face like a ray of sunlight, and checked by lines of tender sadness, just before the two ends of it pass each other at the back of the neck. And so, smiling, we went on. “Well, one day George’s father——” “George who?” asked Clarence. “George Washington. He was a little boy then, just like you. One day his father——” “Whose father?” demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of interest. “George Washington’s—this great man we were telling you of. One day George Washington’s father gave him a little hatchet for a——” “Gave who a little hatchet?” the dear child interrupted with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most men would have betrayed signs of impatience, but we didn’t. We know how to talk to children, so we went on. “George Washington. His——” “Who gave him the little hatchet?” “His father. And his father——” “Whose father?” “George Washington’s.” “Oh!” “Yes, George Washington. And his father told him——” “Told who?” “Told George.” “Oh, yes, George.” And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. We took up the story right where the boy interrupted; for we could see that he was just crazy to hear the end of it. We said— “And he told him that——” “Who told him what?” Clarence broke in. “Why, George’s father told George.” “What did he tell him?” “Why, that’s just what I’m going to tell you. He told him——” “Who told him?” “George’s father. He——” “What for?” “Why, so he wouldn’t do what he told him not to do. He told him——”