The struggle was a sharp one; when suddenly,
as if determined to rid itself of its rider, the
creature leaped into the air with a tremendous bound.
It was its last. The violence burst a blood-vessel,
and the noble horse fell dead.
Before the boys could sufficiently recover to
consider how they should extricate themselves
from the scrape, they were called to breakfast;
and the mistress of the house, knowing that they
had been in the fields, began to ask after her
stock.
``Pray, young gentlemen,'' said she, ``have you
seen my blooded colts in your rambles? I hope
they are well taken care of. My favorite, I am
told, is as large as his sire.''
The boys looked at one another, and no one
liked to speak. Of course the mother repeated
her question.
``The sorrel is dead, madam,'' said her son, ``I
killed him.''
And then he told the whole story. They say
that his mother flushed with anger, as her son
often used to, and then, like him, controlled
herself, and presently said, quietly:--
``It is well; but while I regret the loss of my
favorite, I rejoice in my son who always speaks
the truth.''
WASHINGTON THE ATHLETE
BY ALBERT F. BLAISDELL AND FRANCIS E. BALL
Many stories are told of the mighty power of
Washington's right arm. It is said that he once
threw a stone from the bed of the stream to the
top of the Natural Bridge, in Virginia.
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