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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 217 pages of information about Washington's Birthday.

At last the war came to an end; the English were beaten, and our armies sent up praise and thanks to God.

Then the soldiers went quietly back to their homes, and Washington bade all his officers good-by, and thanked them for their help and their courage.

The little room in New York where he said farewell is kept to show to visitors now, and you can see it some day yourselves.

Then Washington went home to Mount Vernon to rest; but before he had been there long, the people found out that they must have someone to help take care of them, as they had nothing to do with the king of England any more; and they asked Washington to come and be the first President of the United States.

So he did as they wished, and was as wise and good, and as careful and fine a President as he had been surveyor, soldier, and general.

You know we always call Washington the Father of his Country, because he did so much for us, and helped to make the United States so great.

After he died, there were parks and mountains and villages and towns and cities named for him all over the land, because people loved him so, and prized so highly what he had done for them.

In the city of Washington there is a building where you can see many of the things that belonged to the first President, when he was alive.  There is his soldier’s coat, his sword, and in an old camp chest are the plates and knives and forks that he used in the Revolution.

There is a tall, splendid monument of shining gray stone in that city, that towers far, far, above all the highest roofs and spires.  It was built in memory of George Washington by the people of the United States, to show that they loved and would always remember the Father of his Country.

FOOTNOTES: 

[25] From “The Story Hour” by Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora A. Smith.  Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers.

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HEADQUARTERS IN 1776[26]

BY PAUL LEICESTER FORD

On September 15, a group of horsemen, occupying a slight eminence of ground on the island of Manhattan, were gazing eastward.  Below and nearer the water were spread lines of soldiers behind intrenchments, while from three men-of-war lying in the river came a heavy cannonade that swept the shore line and spread over the water a pall of smoke which, as it drifted to leeward, obscured the Long Island shore from view.

“’Tis evidently a feint, your Excellency,” presently asserted one of the observers, “to cover a genuine attack elsewhere—­most likely above the Haarlem.”

The person addressed—­a man with an anxious, care-worn face that made him look fifty at least—­lowered his glass, but did not reply for some moments.  “You may be right, sir,” he remarked, “though to me it has the air of an intended attack.  What think you, Reed?”

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