L. ROUNTREE SMITH

T. B. WEAVER

1. Wave the bon-nie ban-ners high, On Washington's birthday; 2. Float the ban-ners ev-'ry-where, On Washington's birthday;

Many children march along, And this is what they say: Ev-'ry school-house in the land The bon-nie flags dis-play;

Welcome, old Red, White, and Blue, Brave men have died for you; Long may the bon-nie flags wave O'er ev - 'ry sol-dier's grave;

And

And Washington was our he
Washington was our he

ro.

ro.

25

Raise the bon- nie ban-ners high, As we go march-ing by,

नै

26

A. J. LAMB

Arranged by V. P.

1. George Washington when but a lad, An i - dle moment 2. Now lit-tle George this hatchet took, He gave it man-y a 3. He chopped the chicken's feathers off, He chopped the fence and

never had, And So his father one fine day Gave loving look, He swung it gai ly in the air, And water trough, He chopped the wood and would not stop, He

CHORUS:

him a hatch-et-just for play.

then went chopping ev'rywhere. O George Washington! George

then went chopping everywhere.

Washington! George Washington! George Washington! O George

Washington! George Washington! The first man of A-mer-i-ca!

4. He chopped at everything in sight
He chopped by day, he chopped by night,
And like a naughty bad boy, he

Chopped at his father's cherry tree.—Cнo.

5. His father came and saw the wreck,
He took young Georgie by the neck,
Then young George said-the noble kid-
"I did it, father! Yes, I did."-CHO.

6. When George grew up in "76,

He went right at his chopping tricks,
And every night before he'd sup
He'd chop the English army uр.-Сно.

7. So to this hatchet we may trace
Our mighty country's present place;
And there's no land that dares to match it,
George Washington's cute little hatchet.-CHO.

W

THE STORY OF THE HATCHET*

REV. MASON L. WEEMS

Formerly Pastor of Mt. Vernon Parish

HEN George was about six years old, he was made the wealthy master of a hatchet, of which, like most little boys, he was immoderately fond, and was constantly going about chopping everything that came in his way. One day, in the garden, where he often amused himself hacking his mother's pea-sticks, he, unluckily tried the edge of his hatchet on the body of a beautiful young English cherry-tree, which he barked so terribly that I don't believe the tree ever got the better of it. The next morning the old gentleman, finding out what had befallen his tree, which, by the by, was a great favorite, came into the house and with much warmth asked for the mischievous author, declaring at the same time that he would not have taken five guineas for his tree. Nobody could tell him anything about it. Presently George and his hatchet made their

appearance.

"George," said his father, "do you know who killed that beautiful little cherry-tree yonder in the garden?”

This was a tough question, and George staggered under it for a moment; but quickly recovered himself, and, looking at his father with the sweet face of youth brightened with the inexpressible charm of all-triumphant truth, he bravely cried out, "I can't tell a lie, Pa, you know I can't tell a lie; I cut it with my hatchet."

"Run to my arms, you dearest boy," cried his father in transports, "run to my arms; glad am I, George, that you ever killed my tree, for you have paid me for it a thousandfold. Such an act of heroism in my son is more worth than a thousand trees, though blossomed with silver and their fruits of fairest gold."

*SEE footnote, p. 13.