The Hillsborough recorder. [volume] (Hillsborough, N.C.) 1820-1879, 1857-09-16

eyes, with more OF beauty in them than time
could touch or death do more than hide
those eyes that held both smiles and tears
within the iaintest call of every one of US
and soft reproof, that seemed not passion but
regret A white tress has escaped from be.
meath her snowy cap; she has Just restored
wandering lamb to its mother; she length-
ened the tether OF a vine that was strayng
over window, as she came in, and pucked
a four leafed clover for Ellen. She sits down
by the little wheel-a tress is running
through he, fingers from the distafi's dis
heyeled head, when small voice cries,
Grandma" from the old red cradle, and
"Grandma" Tommy shouts from the top Of
the stairs. Gently she lets go the thread, for
her patience is almost as beautiful as her
charity, and she touches the little red bark
in moment. till the young yoyager is in a
dream again, and then directs Tommy's un-
ayaiing attempts to harness the cat. The
tick OF the clock runs faint and low, and she
opens the mysterious door, and proceeds to
wind il up. We are all on tip-toe, and we
beg in a breath to be lifted up, one by one,
and look for the hundreth time upon the tin
cases Of the weights, and the poor. lonely
pendulum, which goes 70 and fro by its little
dim window, and never comes out in the
world and our petitions are granted, and we
are lifted up. and we all touch with finger
the wonderful weights, aud the music Of the
little wheel is resumed.
Was Mary 10 be married, or Jane to be
wrapped in shroud! So meekly did she
fold the white hands Of one upon her still bo.
som, that there seemed to be prayer in
them there aud so sweetly did she wreathe
the white rose in the hair Of the other, that
one would not have wondered had more roses
budded for company.
How she stood between us and apprehend>
ed harm! How the rudest OF US soitened be-
meath the gentle pressure of her faded and
tremnlous hand From her capacious pocket
that hand was ever withdrawn closed, only
to be opened in our own, with the nuts she
had gathered, the cherries she had plucked,
the little egg she had found. the " turn,over''
she had baked, the trinket she had purchased
for US as the product Of her spinning, the
blessing she had stored for us-the offspring
Of her heart.
What treasure Of story fell from those old
lips-of good fairies and evil, of the old times
when she was a girl; and we wondered if ever
but then she couldn't be behanis0mer or dear
er-but that she ever was" little" And, then,
when We begged her to sing! "Sing US one
Of the old eonss you ae.d TO sing mother,
grandma"
Children, can't sing" she always said;
and mother used TO lay her knitting softly
down, and the kitten slapped PLAYING with
the yarn upon the floor, and the clock licked
lower in the corner, and the fire died down
to glow. like an old heart, that is neither
chilled nor dead-and grandmother sang.
To be sure, it wouldn't do for the parlOr aud
the concert.ronm now. days but then it was
the old kitchen and the old.fashioned grand.
mother, and the old ballad, in the dear old
times and we can hardly see to write for the
memory Of them, though il is a hands breath
TO the sunset.
Well, she sang. Her voice was feeble and
wayering, like fountain just ready TO fall.
but then how sweet.toned it was and il be-
came deeper and stronger; but it couldn't
grow sweeter. What "joy Of grief it was
TO sit there around the fire, all Of US, except
Jane, that clasped prayer to her bosom, and
her thoughts we cav, when the hall-door was
opened moment by the wind but then we
were not afraid, for wasn't II her old smile
she wore .-to sit there around the fire aud
weep over the woes Of the g Babes in the
Woods;" who lay down side by side in the
great solemn shadows; aud how strangely
glad we felt when the robin.redbrcast cover
ed them with leaves; and last of all, when
the angels took them out Of the night into
day everlasting.
We may think what we will Of il now but
the song and the story heard around the
Kitchen fire have col0red the thoughts and
lives Of most Of US; have given US the germs Of
whatever poetry blessesour hearts, whatever
memory blooms in our yesterdays. Attribute
whatever We may tothe school and the school
master, the rays which make that little day
we call life, radiate from the Gud.swept
circle Of the hearth stone.
Then size sings an old lullaby she sang to
mother-her mother sang to her /; but she does
not sing il through, and ialters ere It's done.
She rests her head upon her hands, and II i
silent 10 the old kitchen. Something gitters
down between her fingers and the frelIght, and
il looks like rain 10 the sOlt sunshine. fhe
old grandmother is thinking when she first
heard the song, aud Of the voice that sung il,
when a ight-haired and ligbt.hrarted girl.
she hung around that mothers chair, nor saw
the shadows Of the days TO come. U! the
days that are no more What spell can We
weave to bring them back Sgain: What words
can we unsay. what deeds undo, 70 set back
Just this once, the ancient clock Of time:
So all our little hands we're forever cling
ing to her garments, aud staying her a. u
from dying, for long ago she had done living
for herself, and lived alone in Us. But the
old kitchen wants presence to.day, and tile
rush .boltomed chair is tenantless.
How she used to welcome Us when we
were grown, and came back once more 10 the
homestead.
We thought We we're men and women, but
we we're children there. The old-fashiOned
grandmother was blind in the eyes, but she
saw With her heart, as she always did. We