The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1871-08-04
From the Danish of Hans Christian Andersen. /
The GrandmOfhe

Grandmamma is so old, she has so many
wrinkles, and her hair is quite white; but her
eyes shine like two stars. Yea, they are much
more beautiful; they are so mild, so blessed
to look into. And she can tell the most de.
lightful stories, and she has dress of thick
silk that rustles; it is covered with large
flowers.
Grandmamma knows so much, for she lived
long before papa and mamma, that is certain
Grandmamma has a psalm-book with thick
silver clasp, and she reads in it often; in it
there lies rose; it is quite pressed and dry;
1T is not so fine as the roses she has in the
vase, and yet she always smiles most kindly
at IT.; there even comes tears in her eyes,
How can it be that grandmamma looks al
ways so fondly upon the withered rose in the
old book? Do you know? Each time that
grandmamma's tears fall upon the flower, its
color revives, 1t fresEens again, and the whole
room is filled with the scent of it; the walls
disappear as though they were only fog, ana
and all around is the green, beautiful wood,
with the sun shining through the leaves, and
grandmamma-yes, she is quite young! She
is beautiful girl, with golden locks and
blooming cheeks, engaging and lovely; no
rose Is more fresh; yet the eyes, the mild,
blessed eyes, they are still grandmamma's.
By her side is seated youth-so young,
handsome and strong. He offers her the rose
and she smiles-but not thus smiles grand
mamma! Yes!-the smile comes. He is
gone; many thoughts and many forms pass
by; the handsome youth is gone, the rose lies
in the psalm book, and grandmamma-yes,
there she sits again as an old lady, gazing at
the withered rose that lies IN the book.
Now grandmamma is dead. She sat in the
easy chair, and told a long, long, delightful
story. "ADd now it is over," she said, "and
am quite weary; let me sleep little" Then
she lay back, drew a heavy sigh, and slept;
but it became more and more still, and her
face was so full of peace and joy, it vas as if
the sun shined upon it; they then said she
was dead.
She was laid in the black coffin, enshrouded
in pure white linen; she looked so beautiful
and yet her eyes were closed. But all the
wrinkles were gone; a sweet smile played on
her mouth; her hair was so silver-white, SO
honorable, no one could be afraid to look at
her; it was still the same benign, kind grand
mother. And the psalm book was laid under
her head, as she herself had desired, and the
rose lay in the old book; and so they buried
her.
On her grave, close under the church wall,
they planted rose tree, and it stood full of
blossoms; the nightingale sang over it, and
from within the church the organ played the
most beautiful psalms in the book that lay
| under her head. And the moon shone right
down upon the grave; but the dead one was
| not there; every child could fearlessly go
there at night, and pluck rose, there by the
| churehyard wall.
One that is dead knows more than We all
| living know; the dead knows the dread we
| should feel at anything so strange as that they
should come to us; the dead are better than
we all, and so they do not come. There is
earth over the coffin, there is earth in it,
The psalm book with its leaves is dust, the
rose with all its associations has crumbled
| into dust; but above, fresh roses bloom
above, the nightingale sings, and the organ
plays; one thinks of the old grandmother,
| with the mild eyes, ever young.
Eyes can never die! Ours shall one day see
her, young and beautiful as when, for the first
time, she kissed the fresh red rose that lieth
| now dust in the grave.