Donald Trump and the Cherry Tree

Perhaps some of you have heard the famous story of George Washington and the cherry tree, as told by Parson Weems. But Weems told another story, just as telling, involving Donald Trump in his youth.

First, we present the story of George and his little hatchet (then we will give the Trump version for comparison).

“When George was about six years old, he was made the wealthy master of a hatchet, of which, like most little boys, he was immoderately fond, and was constantly going about chopping every thing that came in his way. One day, in the garden, where he often amused himself hacking his mother’s pea-sticks, he unluckily tried the edge of his hatchet on the body of a beautiful young English cherry-tree, which he barked so terribly, that I don’t believe the tree ever got the better of it.

The next morning the old gentleman [George’s father] finding out what had befallen his tree, which, by the by, was a great favourite, came into the house, and with much warmth asked for the mischievous author, declaring at the same time, that he would not have taken five guineas for his tree. Nobody could tell him anything about it. Presently George and his hatchet made their appearance. “George,” said his father, “do you know who killed that beautiful little cherry-tree yonder in the garden?” 

This was a tough question; and George staggered under it for a moment; but quickly recovered himself: and looking at his father, with the sweet face of youth brightened with the inexpressible charm of all-conquering truth, he bravely cried out, “I can’t tell a lie, Pa; you know I can’t tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet.”

“Run to my arms, you dearest boy,” cried his father in transports, “run to my arms; glad am I, George, that you killed my tree; for you have paid me for it a thousand fold. Such an act of heroism in my son, is more worth than a thousand trees, though blossomed with silver, and their fruits of purest gold.”

George first:

"I cannot tell a lie. Except, maybe, when my lips are moving."

Now, Weems on Trump:


WHEN LITTLE DONALD WAS ABOUT SIX YEARS OLD, he was made the wealthy master of a hatchet, of which, like most little boys, he was immodestly fond, and was constantly going about chopping everything that came his way. One day he wandered into the garden of his next door neighbor, Mr. Washington. (Sometimes Donald and Mr. Washington’s young son, George, played together, though George’s father feared the neighbor lad was a bad influence.) In any case, the Trump boy amused himself by hacking down several pea-sticks, then, unluckily, tried the edge of his hatchet on the body of a beautiful young English cherry-tree, which he barked so terribly, that I don’t believe the tree ever got the better of it.

The next morning, the old gentleman finding out what had befallen his tree, which, by the by, was a great favorite, marched over to the Trump home, and with much warmth asked for the mischievous author of the deed, declaring at the same time, that he would not have taken five hundred dollars for his tree. Nobody could tell him anything about it. Donald’s father pretended total ignorance.

Presently Donald and his hatchet made their appearance. 

“Donald,” said Mr. Washington, “do you know who killed that beautiful little cherry-tree yonder in the garden?”

This was a tough question; and the lad staggered under it a moment, but quickly recovered himself, glanced at his own father standing nearby, and with the sweet face of youth brightened with the inexpressible charm of all-conquering truth, he bravely cried, “I cannot tell a lie, Pa; you know I cannot tell a lie!”

A brief look of pride passed across Mr. Trump’s face. He was famed for driving sharp bargains in all his dealings, including making sure dark-skinned people never rented any of his properties. He had taught his son well. He was certain.

As we said, it had been a hard question and little Donald hesitated to respond. Mr. Washington waited for an answer.

“Donald,” he repeated finally, “did you cut down that cherry tree or didn’t you?”

With a shining look of innocence, which little Donald had been taught by Father Trump to practice before a mirror, he replied, “No, sir. I saw a Mexican chop down your cherry tree. You probably need to think about building a wall around your garden.”

“Donald, there are no Mexicans within a hundred miles. Perhaps you’d like to try again,” Mr. Washington protested.

“I don’t even own a hatchet,” Donald offered.

“Donald,” said Mr. Washington, “you are holding a hatchet in your hand. I can see it. Do you think I’m blind?”

“I did not do it. I swear it, sir. Now that I think of it, it was probably some Syrian refugee. You can’t trust those people.”

“It was not some Syrian, young man….” Mr. Washington tried again. He could hardly believe such cheek in one so young.

“I did not do it,” the lad insisted. “And I did not grab your daughter by the p----.”

“Good lord,” replied a now completely exasperated Mr. Washington, who had been forced to address this very serious matter with Mr. and Mrs. Trump previously. “I know you did it, you little rogue. Admit it.” He looked to Donald’s father for help. Mr. Trump appeared oddly pleased.

The lad continued: “It wasn’t me, I swear it. Come to think, I saw a redskin in your orchard with a tomahawk. Yes. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

“You said it was a Mexican just two minutes ago,” the aggrieved owner of the cherry tree finally responded. “Thankfully, my son will never be such a pathological liar.” And with that, Mr. Washington stormed off, mulling over the possibility of putting up a fence, for sure, but in this case to keep the tiny reprobate from ever setting foot on his property again.

“Run to my arms, you dearest boy,” cried Donald’s father in transports once his neighbor was gone. “Run to my arms! Glad am I, Donald, that you killed that tree, for you have paid me for it a thousand-fold. Such an act of prevarication in my son is worth more than a thousand trees, though blossomed with silver, and their fruits of purest gold. For some day, adapting these selfsame methods to your business dealings, you will make a billion dollars Maybe more!”

“I will, Pa, I will. I promise. And you know what will make it even better? I won’t pay any taxes!”