The Day the Outhouse Floated Away

Once there was a little boy who lived out in the countryside with his family. Their home didn’t have indoor plumbing, so they had to use an old outhouse that sat on the edge of a creek. The boy hated that outhouse. It was sweltering in the summer, freezing in the winter, and it smelled awful year-round.

He often dreamed of getting rid of it—and one day, after a heavy spring rain, he saw his chance. The creek was swollen, the current strong. With mischief in his eyes, the boy grabbed a big stick, marched down to the creek, and gave the outhouse a mighty push. After some effort, it teetered, then toppled over and floated away down the creek.

That evening, his father said, “After supper, we’re heading to the woodshed.” The boy’s heart sank—he knew what that meant.

“But why?” he asked, trying to play innocent.

His father looked him square in the eye. “Someone pushed the outhouse into the creek today. That was you, wasn’t it?”

The boy hesitated, then admitted, “Yes, it was me. But Dad, in school today, we read how George Washington chopped down a cherry tree and told the truth—and he didn’t get in trouble because he was honest.”

His father nodded and replied, “That’s true, son. But there’s one big difference.”

“What’s that?” the boy asked.

His dad said, “George Washington’s father wasn’t sitting in that cherry tree.”