Tony’s Birthday and George Washington’s
By Agnes Repplier
It was the great misfortune of Tony Butler’s life to have been born on the twenty-second of February.
There was no comfort in reflecting that there were doubtless plenty of other boys in the country who labored under the same disadvantage. The other boys might perhaps be better fitted for the honor, but for poor Tony the distinction was a crushing one.
In the first place, he had an older brother, and that older brother’s name was George. Now it is generally conceded that one of a name is enough for any family; but when Tony was born on the twenty-second of February, how was poor Mrs. Butler to act?
Not to have called him after the Father of his Country would have been, in that good woman’s opinion, a positive slight to the illustrious dead. As long as her boy was fortunate enough to have the same birthday as our great President, it became her plain duty to give him one other point of resemblance, and then trust to time to complete the likeness.
It was a pity that they had a George already, but that difficulty could be done away with by calling her second son Washington. Washington Butler sounded well, and seemed all that was desirable; only there was just a little too much of it for every-day use. Sometimes the boy was called Washie, and sometimes Wash, and sometimes Wah, and sometimes Tony, until, as he grew older, and able to talk, he evinced a decided preference for the last title, and would answer to no other.
But although this lessened his troubles it by no means ended them; for when a child has so many nicknames to choose from, everybody is apt to select a different one; and to confess the truth, he was not at all the right sort of a boy to be called George Washington.
There was nothing of the soldier, nothing of the patriot, nothing at all remarkable, about poor Tony in any way. He was a shy, homely little boy, who would have passed well enough as plain Sam, which, being his father’s name, would also have been his had it not been for his unfortunate birthday. But as George Washington, even his doting mother was forced to realize he was not a complete success.
The first day he went to school the master sonorously read out his name as Antony Butler, whereat his brother giggled, and Tony, blushing fiery red, stammered out that he was not an Antony at all.
“Not Antony?” said the teacher, in natural surprise. “Why, then, are you called Tony?”
“Because my name is George Washington, and we had a George already,” was the embarrassed answer.
After this the boys with one accord dubbed him Washing Tony, as if he were a Chinese laundryman, and Washing Tony he continued to be called.
Under these circumstances, perhaps he was excusable in wishing he had been born on some less illustrious day, and when the Twenty-second came duly around it required all the delights of a new pair of skates and a fur cap to reconcile him entirely to his fate.
It being a general holiday, all the boys proposed spending it on the ice, and Tony could skate a great deal better than he could write or cipher; although even here he was never what boys consider brave, and what their parents are apt to more accurately define as foolhardy.
The truth is, there was not in the child a spice of that boyish daring which seems so attractive in its possessor, and which is in reality so wanton and useless.
Tony never wanted to climb high trees, or jump from steep places, or pat a restive horse, or throw an apple at a cross old farmer. All these things, which were dear to the hearts of his companions, were totally unattractive to him. He could never be dared to any deed that had a touch of danger in it, and the contrast between his prudent conduct and his illustrious title was, in the eyes of all the other boys, the crowning absurdity of the case.
On this particular birthday the weather, though clear, was mild for the season, and some apprehension had been felt as to the complete soundness of the ice. A careful investigation, however, showed it to be all firm and solid except in one corner, where the lake was deepest, and where the ice, though unbroken, looked thin and semi-transparent, with the restless water underneath. Around this uncertain quarter a line was drawn, and soon some thirty or forty boys were skimming rapidly over the frozen surface.
Fred Hazlit and Eddy Barrows were the champion skaters of the district, and their evolutions were regarded with wonder and delight by a host of smaller boys, who vainly tried to rival their achievements.
Not so Tony. Although perfectly at home on the ice, he seemed to have no more desire to excel here than elsewhere, but skated gravely up and down, enjoying himself in his sober fashion, his cap drawn over his eyes, his little red hands thrust in his overcoat pockets.
George, who did not think this at all amusing, was off with the older boys, trying to write his name on the ice, and going over and over it with a patient persistency that, practised at school, would have made him the first writer in his class.
Gradually the forbidden ground began to be encroached on, some of the older boys skimming lightly over it, and finding it quite hard enough to bear their weight. Soon the line was obliterated by a dozen pairs of skates, and the children, never heeding it, spread themselves over every inch of ice on the lake.
All but Tony. With characteristic prudence he had marked the dangerous corner well, and never once ventured upon it. As he stopped to tighten his skates, four of the younger boys, hand in hand, came bearing down upon him.
“Catch hold,” shouted Willie Marston, “and we’ll make a line. Hurrah! Here goes!” and Tony with the rest shot across the smooth sheet of ice until they came to the inclosed quarter. The others were keeping right on, but Tony stopped short.
“It is not safe,” he said, “and I am not going on it.”
“Nonsense!” cried Dick Treves. “What a coward you are, Tony! We have been over it a dozen times already this morning, and it is just as safe as the rest.”
“Of course it is,” said Willie. “Come ahead.”
But Tony did not go ahead. Neither did he discuss the matter, for argument of any kind was not at all in his way. He merely stopped and let go of Willie’s hand. “It isn’t safe,” he persisted. “You can do as you like, but I am not going on it.”
“Well, stay there,” said Ned Marston, giving him a little shove—“stay where you are, General Washington, and cross the Delaware on dry land if you can.”
“Three cheers for General Washington!” shouted Dick derisively. “Hurrah for the bravest of the brave!” and then the three boys skated on, leaving Tony standing there upon the ice.
His face flushed crimson with shame, but he never stirred. He hated to be laughed at and called a coward, but he was afraid to venture, and no amount of ridicule could urge him on.
Slowly he turned to go when at that instant an ominous sound struck his ear. The treacherous ice was cracking in all directions, a dozen jagged seams spreading like magic over the smooth surface. There was a sharp snap, a cry of terror, a splash, and three boys, white with fright, started back from the yawning hole barely in time to save themselves from falling.
In the excitement and fear of that moment no one of them thought of his companion; but Tony, who stood beside, had seen poor Willie’s despairing blue eyes fixed on him with a mute appeal for help as he staggered and fell into the dark water.
Somehow all his habitual caution, which was so falsely termed cowardice, had disappeared; he never even thought of being afraid, with that pitiful glance still before his eyes, but, urged on by some great impulse, cleared the space between them in an instant, and plunged down after his drowning friend.
Another minute and both boys re-appeared, Willie clutching fiercely at his preserver, and Tony holding him off as well as he could with one arm while he struck out bravely with the other.
It was but the work of a moment before help reached them, but that moment had saved poor Willie’s life, and changed forever the opinions of the school.
They had learned what true courage was. Tony Butler might be timid and insignificant, but he had proved himself beyond a doubt worthy of his illustrious name, and a fit hero for the Twenty-second.