rue_
Father."

"Ain't you my _true_ father, pa?"

"Yes, I am your father, George, as the world calls it, and love you with
a father's love. Yet, with all my love for you, I am but a poor father
in comparison with your _true_ Father."

"I know well enough whom you mean," continued George. "You mean God,
don't you?"

"Yes, I mean Him, indeed, my son. _He_ is your _true_ Father," was Mr.
Washington's hearty answer.

George went on with his inquiries, and his father, answered, adding at
last:

"Well, then, as you could not believe that _chance_ had made and put
together so exactly the letters of your name (though only sixteen), then
how can you believe that _chance_ could have made and put together all
those millions and millions of things that are now so exactly fitted for
your good! Eyes to see with; ears to hear with; nose to smell with; a
mouth to eat with; teeth to bite with; hands to handle with; feet to
walk with; a mind to think with; a heart to love with; a home to live
in; parents to care for you, and brothers and sisters to love you! Why,
look at this beautiful world in which you live, with its golden, light
to cheer you by day, and its still night to wrap you in sleep when you
are too tired to play; its fruits, and flowers and fields of grass and
grain; its horses to draw you and cows to give you milk; its sheep to
furnish wool to cloth you, and meat for your food; its sun, moon and
stars to comfort you; bubbling springs to quench your thirst; wood to
burn that you may be warm in winter; and _ten thousand other good
things_--so many that my son could never number them all, or even think
of them! Could _chance_ bring about all these things so exactly as to
suit your _wants_ and _wishes_?"

"No, pa, chance could not do it," answered George, really taking in this
new view of the world around him.

"What was it, then, do you think, my son?" continued his father.

"God did it," George replied.

"Yes, George, it is all the work of God, and nobody else," responded his
father. "He gives us all."

"Does God give me everything? Don't you give me _some things_?" George
inquired.

"I give you something!" exclaimed his father. "How can I give you
anything, George? I who have nothing on earth I can call my own; no, not
even the breath I draw!"

"Ain't the house yours, and the garden, and the horses and oxen and
sheep?" still inquired George, failing to comprehend the great truth of
God's ownership.

"Oh,