INSPIRATIONS OF TRUTH.

EVERY year, so oft as the 22d of February comes, the day sacred to the memory of the father of his country is faithfully celebrated by two good boys of Burlington, who, if their lives are only spared, will yet be second editions of the immortal G. W. Last year, it was noticed by every one about the house, they were unusually good. They stayed home all the morning, and talked about Washington, and how he broke the mule and girdled the sassafras tree, and how good he was, and what a pity it was he had no middle name. Along in the afternoon their mother sent them to the church, where there was to be a festival, with a basket filled high with sweet home-made bread, and cold boiled ham, and roast chicken, and one thing and another. They took hold of the basket and plodded soberly and goodily toward the church. As they started down Division Street they saw a boy coming toward them whom they knew. He was the son of a neighbor, the blacksmith’s boy, with whom they had a feud of long standing; for on divers occasions he had caught these good brothers out, separately, and had rudely assaulted them, and fairly pounded the hair off their heads. He was a little too healthy for either of the boys alone, but the pair had sworn to make it lively for him if ever they lighted upon him together. So soon as they saw him they put down the basket and gave chase. He girded up his loins and fled, but the boys got themselves up and pursued after him and pressed him hard, and after a rattling chase of about two blocks, they encompassed him round about in a vacant lot, and fell upon him, and smote him insomuch that he begged for mercy and screamed for succor until he was black in the face. Then the victors, joyous returning from the fray, with light steps sought their long abandoned train. Imagine their dismay when, through the gathering twilight gloom, they saw somewhat less than one hundred and fifty thousand dogs, half buried in the basket, dividing and devouring the sutler stores contained therein. There was precious little left when the dogs were driven away, and the boys went home exceeding sorrowful, but hopeful. Their mother met them at the door, and took the empty basket from their hands.

“Who did you give the basket to?” she asked.

“Mrs. Featherstone, dear ma,” replied the elder George Washington.

“And what did she say?” asked their mother, for Mrs. Featherstone is an authority in church festivals.

“Oh,” chorused both George Washingtons, “she said it was the nicest basket that had come in all the afternoon.”

“And,” added the younger George, feeling that he wasn’t doing himself justice if he didn’t get in an independent statement, “Mrs. Lamphreys said she would give anything in the world if she could make such white bread as yours—she said it was wonderful how you done it.”

“Now, did she say that?” cried the delighted woman; for at the last sociable Mrs. Lamphreys said her bread was like bass-wood slabs.

“And Mr. Middlerib,” cried the elder G. W., fearful lest his younger brother should find favor and be exalted over him, “said there wasn’t such chickens anywhere in the State of Iowa outside of that basket.”

And then the younger held the age again, and the older chipped one, and the younger saw him and raised him, and then the older came in, and the younger stayed right by him, and they told all manner of things and compliments about and from all manner of people who were at the church, until the good woman, astonished and delighted at her sudden popularity, determined to go to the sociable, although she had not intended to do so. She went, and she looked in vain for her cake and ham and chicken. She returned home at an early hour, and roused her young George Washingtons from the sweet, innocent sleep of childhood. Then she took a skate strap, and after a brief but pointed cross-questioning on the evidence already brought forward, proceeded——. The rest is too awful.