“My horses?” said she, bending upon him a pair of eyes born to command.  “Sir, you cannot have them.  My crops are out and I need my horses in the field.”

“I am sorry,” said the officer, “but I must have them, madam.  Such are the orders of my chief.”

“Your chief?  Who is your chief, pray?” she demanded with restrained warmth.

“The commander of the American army, General George Washington,” replied the other, squaring his shoulders and swelling his pride.

A smile of triumph softened the sternness of the woman’s features.  “You go and tell General George Washington for me,” said she, “that his mother says he cannot have her horses.”

The wagons of “the greatest show on earth” passed up the avenue at daybreak.  Their incessant rumbling soon awakened ten-year-old Billie and five-year-old brother Robert.  Their mother feigned sleep as the two white-robed figures crept past her bed into the hall, on the way to investigate.  Robert struggled manfully with the unaccustomed task of putting on his clothes.  “Wait for me, Billie,” his mother heard him beg.  “You’ll get ahead of me.”

“Get mother to help you,” counseled Billie, who was having troubles of his own.

Mother started to the rescue, and then paused as she heard the voice of her younger, guarded but anxious and insistent.

“You ask her, Billie.  You’ve known her longer than I have.”

A little girl, being punished by her mother flew, white with rage, to her desk, wrote on a piece of paper, and then going out in the yard she dug a hole in the ground, put the paper in it and covered it over.  The mother, being interested in her child’s doings, went out after the little girl had gone away, dug up the paper and read: 

    Dear Devil: 
    Please come and take my mamma away.

One morning a little girl hung about the kitchen bothering the busy cook to death.  The cook lost patience finally.  “Clear out o’ here, ye sassy little brat!” she shouted, thumping the table with a rolling-pin.

The little girl gave the cook a haughty look.  “I never allow any one but my mother to speak to me like that,” she said.

The public-spirited lady met the little boy on the street.  Something about his appearance halted her.  She stared at him in her near-sighted way.

THE LADY—­“Little boy, haven’t you any home?”

THE LITTLE BOY—­“Oh, yes’m; I’ve got a home.”

THE LADY—­“And loving parents?”

THE LITTLE BOY—­“Yes’m.”

THE LADY—­“I’m afraid you do not know what love really is.  Do your parents look after your moral welfare?”

THE LITTLE BOY—­“Yes’m.”

THE LADY—­“Are they bringing you up to be a good and helpful citizen?”

THE LITTLE BOY—­“Yes’m.”

THE LADY—­“Will you ask your mother to come and hear me talk on ’When Does a Mother’s Duty to Her Child Begin?’ next Saturday afternoon, at three o’clock, at Lyceum Hall?”