‘Washington and the Cherry Tree’
From Legends of Liberty, Volume 3By Andrew Benson Brown
Young George chopped down his father’s cherry tree, Not knowing that a woman lived inside. While playing with his hatchet, too carefree Out in the garden plot, he swung in wide And chipped a piece of bark from off the trunk. Some sap began to pour out in a flood; The wounded tree fell over with a ‘plunk.’ A nymph arose. She flowed with flowered buds Of blonde, a mistress of lush primavera, Her alabaster face unblemished by mascara.
George dropped his hatchet on the ground and stared. Green tendrils crept upon her glowing gown. She sighed, exhaling roses, and declared: “I’m Flora (Chloris formerly), the crown Goddess of Spring—and you’ve destroyed my home. This cherry tree had some delicious yields.” She brushed her golden hair with a bark comb. “One like it grew in the Elysian Fields. What should I do with you, young vernal vandal? I’ve turned men into flowers for a lesser scandal.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t know,” George said. —“Do you like flowers?” —“Yes, I treasure them.” —“Liar. How often at your mother’s bed Of tulips have you severed bulb from stem?” The goddess asked. “I’ve watched your hatchet swish! Don’t worry though, my aim is not to punish… In fact, I’ll grant you anything you wish.” Young George impressed a whim her will might publish: “I want to be a soldier, brave and true.” “So be it,” Flora said. “All heroes you’ll outdo.”
She waved her comb as if it were a wand, Then brushed her hair some more, and added, “But… The softer side of life, as well, will bond You to my nature, ease your martial strut: If any time this plot should cease to grow At Mount Vernon, you’ll turn into a rose.” George cried, “You promised not to punish, though!” Her (shrugging): “‘Brave and true’—choice words. Your pose Will match them, never slouching in the truth.” With that, she fertilized the wind and left the youth.
His father hugged him in a tight embrace. “My son! For once you’ve fused that silver tongue With honesty—it melts your deed’s disgrace. Truth is a lovely feature in the young!” George tried responding, muffled: “Icantbreathe.” To sentimental moods he was averse— Feelings at least were something he could sheathe. The rest was open to the dryad’s curse. Regardless of its usefulness or not, He’d practice from now on what most had only taught.
