a great host. The few knew their cause was just and this gave them great zeal. Their trust was in God.
They met on Cam-bridge Com-mon to ask God to bless them and the plan they had made. God heard them, told them what to do, and sent one to lead them.
The name of that lead-er was George Wash-ing-ton.
In Virginia, Feb. 22, 1732, at Brid-ges' Creek, George Wash-ing-ton was born. His house had but four rooms. At each end, on the out side, the flue went up to the top. He was born at 10 A. M.
His folks were plain in their ways. The boy's dark blue eyes first saw such scenes as would be found in an-y farm house in the land. He saw a low room; a great, wide, brick fire-place; a well kept rug; a few chairs with straw seats; and a tall bed-stead with posts like masts, the same sort as Wash-ing-ton slept in all his life. Hung up high on the walls were prints of men who had been brave on sea and land. Back of the door a tall clock went tick, tick, and this might have been the first sound the babe heard.
The plain way in which Wash-ing-ton was bred made him like plain things all his days. His clothes were plain—spun, wove, and made at home. Out door life had a charm for him. A-mer-i-cans bless the plain old farm house where this child, who did so much for them, was born. Now all that marks its site is a slab of free-stone. The trees that grew near that house were figs, pines, and some sorts which would keep green all the year. The boy was fond of them. The fields and woods, too, held things dear to him. His young life was full of cheer. The words that he wrote in those days tell us so. Each word seems as if a boy with a bright, frank face had put it down.
