Betsy looked with delight at the dainty white frock spread out on the big four-poster bed in the spare room.

It was early spring in the quaint old Southern town of Salisbury. Through the windows of the big white house of the Brandon plantation which was Betsy’s home came the sweet notes of the first mocking bird, the singing of the farm hands as they ploughed the land for the first planting, and the fresh odor of the pine trees.

A few years before Salisbury had seen the devastating ruin of war in its lovely green borders. Now, in the year of our Lord and of America’s independence, 1791, the South was peacefully planting and harvesting once more. Barns and cellars and the home larders were full to overflowing.

The next day was to bring a great event to Salisbury. The President of the new United States, George Washington, and his cabinet were making a tour of the South. They had driven in lordly, leisurely fashion in their coaches through Virginia, South Carolina, and Georgia. All Salisbury would see the Greatest American in the morning.

The little town was ready for the President. He was to be met at the village green by an escort of soldiers who would accompany him as he toured the town, and flower girls were to head the procession.

Betsy Brandon was to be one of the flower girls and that was why she had such a pretty new frock. It was made of the sheerest, white dotted swiss with as many ruffles as a white rose has petals. And some of the ruffles were caught up with bunches of tiny pink flowers and green leaves that Betsy’s mother had made with her own clever fingers. A wide pink sash lay on the bed, too, and a white hat with wide pink streamers and a bunch of the same pretty pink flowers in front. Betsy was to wear pink silk stockings and white slippers. Never, in all her life, had she been allowed to wear such lovely things.

She touched the flowing ruffles and the soft silk of the sash, thinking how happy she would be with the other little daughters of Salisbury in the morning. She had not noticed that her mother had crossed the threshold of the spare room and stood beside her looking down earnestly into the little girl’s happy face. Mistress Brandon put her hand on Betsy’s brown braids that were coiled neatly and tied about her head.

“My precious little daughter,” Mistress Brandon said, “there is something that I must tell you.”

“Yes, mother,” Betsy looked smilingly into her mother’s sober face.

Her mother spoke quickly now and as if the words hurt her. “Your dear Aunt Tabitha’s serving man has just come in great haste on horseback from her plantation to say that his mistress is far from well and wishes me to come to her at once with a supply of simples. I must go. The maids are packing my basket and laying out my traveling cloak, and the horses are harnessed and at the door.” She paused, in sorrow at the grief that she saw suddenly in Betsy’s radiant face.

“Your father will not return for some days yet,” she added, and then stopped.

There was a pause and then Betsy looked up bravely, saying just what her mother had hoped and expected that she would, for she was a good little girl.

“And Grandmother should not be left alone here because she is not well and the maids are new,” Betsy said. Then, all at once, it seemed as if she could not bear her disappointment. She threw herself into her mother’s arms, burying her head in her shoulder. “I can’t be a flower girl,” she sobbed. “I must stay at home to-morrow, and not see President Washington. Oh, I can’t bear it; it seems as if I just can’t!”

Her mother stooped down and kissed her. “Any other little daughter except my own brave little Betsy perhaps could not bear the disappointment,” she said, “but she can. The Brandons come of a brave old family, strong to fight and well able to bear whatever comes to them. And think, too, dear, what sorrows came to our brave President before he won the war for us. You can try to be as brave as he, dear child, can you not?”

“Yes, mother.” Betsy was smiling again. She folded the dainty frock and the sash and laid them away in one of the lavender-scented drawers of the big mahogany bureau. And then she went downstairs, and did not shed one tear as she kissed her mother good-bye and watched her drive away between the magnolia trees that lined the long driveway of the plantation.

It was a hard afternoon, though, for Betsy. The little girl who lived on the next plantation came over to see Betsy’s dress and after she had shown it to her, Betsy had to tell her that she would not have an opportunity to wear it. She thought, too, that it would make her grandmother feel badly if she were to know of her disappointment, so she sat with her in her big, sunny room in the afternoon and read to her and was a smiling little girl all the time. Late in the day Betsy went down to the kitchen and made corn bread. She was almost as good a cook as was her mother. The corn bread was as yellow as gold, and as light as sponge cake.

The morning of the great day for Salisbury was as blue and gold as sky and sun could make it. Betsy was up with the birds and gave the maids their orders for the day, and looked over the supplies in the safe, as the big locked cupboard for food was called, just as Mistress Brandon would have done if she had been home. She opened all the windows of the mansion to let in the sweet spring air. She filled the bowls and vases with fresh flowers, and then she sat down with her sewing on the piazza.

Betsy was working a sampler in cross-stitch. Around the edge, embroidered in bright crewels, was a border of flowers and bees, the latter because of her initials. Inside, Betsy was working her name in neat letters, the Lord’s prayer, and the date of her birth. Usually Betsy liked nothing better than to be able to sit there in the quiet of the piazza, shaded by its great pillars, the green lawn stretching below the steps and her colored sewing in her lap. To-day, though, her eyes left the bright worsted often to follow the line of the plantation driveway that led away from the house and down toward the village.

Through the trees she had glimpses of fluttering white skirts and bright ribbons. The flower girls, her little girl neighbors, were gathering and taking their happy way down to the village green to meet Mr. Washington. She could hear their merry voices and the sounds of fifes and drums. The soldiers were starting, too.

Betsy could see, in imagination, how pretty and gay the town would be. People in their carriages and coaches would be there from miles around. Every one would be joyous and so proud to do honor to the Greatest American. It was hours too early for him to be there yet, but here they were gathering to greet him.

“I am brave, but it seems as if I must cry just a little bit,” Betsy buried her head in her sewing. But before she had shed a tear, a man’s voice startled her. She looked up.

He was very tall and straight, and wore the beautiful, rich costume of the Colonies. His velvet knee breeches, silver-buckled shoes, gold-embroidered coat, and white wig showed Betsy that he was a personage of importance. But he stood before her with his three-cornered hat in his hand and bowed to her quite as if she had been a young lady.

“Good morning, little lass of Salisbury,” he said in his deep, kind voice, pointing to her sewing. “You are an industrious child, such an one as I like to see growing up in this new land. You work betimes in the day, and with the birds.”

Betsy rose and dropped a deep curtsey to the stranger. She must have looked very winsome to him in her pink calico dress, white apron, and with her cheeks flushed to a rose color in excitement.

“My mother has taught me that work comes before play, and always in the morning,” Betsy explained. “What is your pleasure, sir!” she went on. “I am the mistress of the Brandon plantation for the day. My mother is called away by the illness of my Aunt Tabitha and I am taking care of grandmother and the maids in her absence. It is a sore disappointment to me, sir. I was to have been a flower girl in the village and walked with our guest of honor of the day, Mr. Washington.”

The stranger came up the steps, and took a chair beside Betsy.

“You wanted very much to see him?” he asked. “Why?”

“Because President Washington is a great soldier, and the most important man in the United States,” Betsy answered, her hands clasped, and her eyes shining with excitement.

The man smiled. “I know him,” he said. “Did it ever occur to you, little lass of Salisbury, that perhaps Mr. Washington is a great deal like other Americans. He loves the earth,” he pointed to the wide expanse of the fertile Brandon acres. “Perhaps, too, he likes to try new roads as I have done this morning. I have come a long distance,” he said, “and am tired and hungry. I left my carriage at the entrance to your plantation, and the driveway looked so pleasant and quiet that I walked along it until I came to your house. May I ask you for food and drink, little Mistress of the Mansion?”

“Indeed, yes, sir!” Betsy sprang toward the door, but with her hand on the latch she turned. “Do you like corn bread, sir,” she asked. “I made some, myself, yesterday afternoon. It is delicious with our fresh milk, half cream.”

“That would make a breakfast that I should like above all else,” the stranger said, smiling. And he watched the graceful little figure as Betsy slipped through the door. “A good daughter of America,” he said to himself, “a housewife above all else.”

In the twinkling of an eye, Betsy returned, carrying a daintily-spread tray. On a white cloth there was set gold and white china, thin and sparkling. The corn bread almost matched the gold, and a tall glass goblet was filled to the top with foamy milk. Betsy’s guest ate as if no meal had ever tasted so good to him before. He did not speak until he had eaten the last crumb of the corn bread and drunk the last drop of the milk. Then he rose to go.

“Many thanks, little Mistress of the Mansion,” he said, “for your very gracious hospitality. I have been entertained most lavishly on the journey I am now taking, but at no stopping place have I enjoyed it so much. I want you to be comforted in your disappointment, my child, and to realize that in serving and feeding a stranger you have done quite as kind an act as if you had scattered flowers before your President.”

“Thank you very much, sir!” Betsy bowed again, and took the strong hand the man gave her as he started down the steps. Then a sudden thought came to her.

“May I ask your name, sir?” she asked. “I should like to tell my mother when she returns.”

“You may, my child,” he replied. “It is George Washington.”

PATRIOTIC SONGS

The best Patriotic Songs of the United States and the Allied European Nations.

Arranged for four part singing. Harmonized for use of children in the keys best suited for that purpose. Large type. Size of print page 5×8. Book trimmed to 6×9. Printed on good paper. Strong paper cover. 32 pages. Price, 10 cents.

Contents

America—The Star Spangled Banner—Battle Hymn of the Republic—Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean—Hail Columbia!—The Battle Cry of Freedom—Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! the Boys are Marching—Yankee Doodle—Tenting on the Old Camp Ground—Home, Sweet Home—Onward Christian Soldiers—Dixie—My Old Kentucky Home—Old Black Joe—Old Folks at Home—Illinois—Sweet and Low—Hymn of the Marseillaise—God Save the King—March of the Men of Harlech—Annie Laurie—Auld Lang Syne—When Johnny Comes Marching Home—Swanee River.

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Patriotic Books

AMERICAN HEROES FROM HISTORY

By INEZ N. McFEE

For Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Grades Cloth—262 pages—Illustrated—76 cents

When the “fairy-tale” period has passed nothing thrills the school boy or girl as do true stories of real heroes. “American Heroes from History” describes the deeds of those men who were instrumental in building our great Nation so entertainingly that the pupils are taught history and patriotism while absorbed in the stories themselves.

PATRIOTIC SONGS

32 large pages—Paper—10 cents

Contains the words and music of twenty-three of the best National songs of America and the Allied countries. There is no better way to teach love for one’s country than by the use of patriotic songs. Printed on good paper and well bound. This book should be in the hands of every boy and girl in the country.

THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY

By EDWARD EVERETT HALE

Cloth, 40 cents—Paper, 20 cents—64 pages

This book has become an American classic—too well known to require comment.

Our edition is an excellent one, with introduction and notes, an account of how the story came to be written, portrait of author, and questions on the text.

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