The independent press. (Abbeville C.H., S.C.) 1853-1860, 1857-10-16
Our Old Grandmother.

| ti'iC Couiu louCu Ut uealn 60 moro Than
hidc-those eyes that held both smiles ant
tears within the faintcst call of every one
of lis, and soft rcproof, that seemed not pas
sion but regret. A white tress has escaped
from beneath her snow cap; she had just
restored wandering lamb TO its mother
she heightened the tcthcr Of vine that was
straying over a window, as she came in, and
plucked four-lcafed clover for Ellen. She
sits down by the little wlccl-a trcss is run
ming through her fingers from the distaif's
disllevelcd 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 rs beautiful as
her charity, and she touches the lite rcd
bark in moment, till the young voyagcr
is i'll a dream again, and then directs Tom
my's unavailing attempts to harness the
cat. The tick Of the clock runs faint and
low, and she opens the mysterious door, and
proceeds to wind it up. We are all on tip
! toe, aud we beg in 4 breath to be lifted up, one
/ 10y one, and look for the huudrcdth time
upon the tin cases cf the weights, and the
poor, lonely pendulum, Which goes to aud
fro by its little dim window, and never
comes out in this world and our petitions
are granted, and we arc lifted up, and we
all touch with finger the wonderful
weights, and the music of the little wheel is
resumed:
Was Mary to he married, or Jane to Lc
wrapped i'll Il shroud So mcckly did she
fold the white hands Of the one upon her
still bosom, that there seemed to be Il pray
CT in them there and SO swcc,y did she
wrcatc the white rose in the hair of the
other, that one would not have wondered
had more roses buddcd for company.
lIo" She stood between us aud the ap-
pretended harm. How the ludest of us
>oitcned beneath the gentle pressure of her
faded and irclnulous hand! From her ca
pacio,is pocket that hand was ever with
drawn closed, only to bc opened in our own,
with the nu!s she had gathered, and the
cherries she had puckcd, the little cyg she
found, the "turn.uvcr" she had baked, the
trimkct she had purchased for lis as the pro-
duct OF her spinning, the blessing she had
stored for us-the offspring Of her heart.
What treasure Of story fell from those old
hps-of good fairies and evil, OF the old
times when she WAS a girl and we won.
d"red if cvcr-but then she couldn't b.
handsomcr or dearcr-but that she ever
WAS little" And, then, when We begged
her to sing' Sing us one Of the old songs
you used to sing mother, grandma"
"Children, l can't sing" she always said;
and mother used to lay her Knitting softly
down, and the kitten stopped playing with it
upon the floor, and the clock licked lower
in the corner, and the fire died down to a
glow like an old heart, that is neither chill
led nor dcad-and grandmother sang. TO
be sure, it wouldn't do Tor the parlor and
the concert room nowadays; but then it
WAS the old kitchen and the old d-f:,shioncd
grandmother, and the old ballad, in the
dear old times and we can hardly see to
write for the memory Of them, though it is
II hands breadth to the sunset
Well, she sang. Her voice was feeble
and wavcring, like IL fountain just ready to
tall, but then how sweet toned it was; and.
it became deeper AMI stronger, bat Il
couldn't grow Swccter. What Joy Of grief"
- was to SIT there around the fire, all Of us,
except Jane, tkat claspcd prayer TO her
bosom, and her thoughts We saw, when The
hall door was opened moment, by the
wind, but then We were not afraid, for wasn't
1t her old smile she wore! to sit there
around the fire and weep over the woes of
the "Babcs i'll the Woods," who lay down
side by side III the great solemn shadows;
and how strangely glad we felt when the
robin redbrrast covered 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 it now.
but the song aud the story heard around
The hiirken fire have colorcd tho thoughts
and lives OF most OF US, have given Us the
germs OF whatever poetry Lesses our
hearts, wiatcvci memory blooms in our yes
terday. Attribute whatever we may 70
the school and the sclloolmastcr, the RAYS
which make that lit.er's dnv We call life.
radials from the Godswept circle oflhe
hcarth-stone.
Then she sings an old lullaby she sang
to mother-hcr mother sang to her; but
she does not sing it through, and fllters ere
us done. She rests her head upon her
hands, aud it is silent in the old kitchen.
Something glilters down between her flu
gers and the freight, and it looks like rain
in the soft sunshine. The ole grandmother
is thinking when she first heard tho song,
and Of the voice that sung it, when light
haired and light. hearted girl. she hung
around that mothers chair, nor saw the
shadows Of the days to come. 0! the days
that are no morca What spell can we
weavcto bring them back again! What
words can we unsay, what deeds undo, to
set back, just this once, the ancient clock Of
time
So all our little hands were forever cling.
ing to her garments. and staying her as if
from dying; for long ago she had done lv-
ing for'herself, and lived alone in U.s.. But.
'he old kitchen wants presence today.
and the rusl,-bottomed CHAIR is tenant!ess
Low she used to welcome us when we were
gtoyn, and came back once ,norelt to the
homestead ..s.....- ~, III ..,..., WI! -.
thought We were men and women,
but we We're children there. Tia oil. .faah