The Simple Story of George Washington

This post is once again drawing for support on Mark Twain's Library of Humor. Some of these are funny, whereas some of these are hilarious, and it's hard to share the funny ones because they are so long. The hilarious ones are of similar length, therefore I find myself sharing the somewhat humorous ones, of which a few are short.

Only yesterday, a lady friend on a shopping excursion left her little tid toddler of five bright summers in our experienced charge, 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 looking that prodigy up in his centennial history
Now listen, Clary,” we said ─his name is Clarence Fitzherbert Alençon 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, however careless he might appear at first, that we would 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 got mad, or 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─”
“George told him?” queried Clarence.
“No, his father told George─”
“Oh!”
“Yes; with the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the cistern, or leave it out on the grass all night. So George went round cutting everything he could reach with his hatchet. And at last he came to a splendid apple-tree, his father’s favorite, and cut it down, and─”
“Who cut it down?”
“George did.”
“Oh!”
“But his father came home and saw it the first thing, and─”
“Saw the hatchet?”
“No! saw the apple tree. And he said ‘Who has cut down my favorite apple-tree?”
“Whose apple tree?”
“George’s father’s. And everybody said that they didn’t know anything about it, and─”
“Anything about what?”
“The apple-tree.”
“Oh!”
“And George came up and heard them talking about it─”
“Heard who talking about it?”
“Heard the father and the men.”
“What was they talking about?”
“About this apple-tree.”
“What apple tree?”
“The favorite apple tree that George cut down.”
“George who?”
“George Washington.”
“Oh!”
“So George came up, and he said, ‘Father, I cannot tell a lie. It was─’”
“His father couldn’t?”
“Why, no, George couldn’t.”
“Oh! George? Oh yes!”
“‘It was I cut down your apple-tree; I did─’”
“His father did?”
“No, no, no; said he cut down his apple-tree.”
“George’s apple tree?”
“No, his father’s.”
“Oh!”
“He said─”
“His father said?”
“No, no, no; George said ‘Father, I cannot tell a lie. I did it with my little hatchet.’ And his father said: ‘Noble boy, I would rather lose a thousand trees than have you tell a lie.’
“George did?”
“No, his father said that.”
“Said he’d rather have a thousand trees?”
“No, no, no; said he’d rather lose a thousand apple-trees than─”
“Said he’d rather George would?”
“No; said he’d rather he would than have him lie.”
“Oh! George would rather have his father lie?”
We are patient, and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers, of Arch Street, hadn’t come and got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we don’t believe all Burlington could have pulled us out of the snarl. And as Clarence Fitzherbert Alençon de Marchemont Caruthers pattered down the stairs, we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a father named George, and he told him to cut an apple-tree, and he said he’d rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple-tree. We do love children, but we don’t believe that either nature or education has fitted us to be a governess.

I thought that mothers of small children would appreciate this one, including my own. I have heard several times a conversation of the following kind, "(name) did this, Now who did it?" "I don't know" "(name) did this, Now who did it?" "I don't know" etc.