The central Presbyterian. [volume] (Richmond, Va.) 1856-1908, 1872-07-31
aFDtas.
The GRANDMOTHER.

The Grand Mother.
Grandmother is so old, she has so many
wrinkles, and her hair is quite white; but
her eyes shine like two stars. Yes, they
are much more beautiful-they are so mild,
50 blessed to look into. And she can tell
the most delightful stories; and she has a
dress of thick silk that rustles; it is covered
with large flowers.
Grand-mamma knows 50 much, for she
lived long before papa and mamma, that is
certain. Grand-mamma has psalm-bOOk
with silver clasps, and she reads in it often.
In it lies a rose; it is quite pressed and dry.
Il is not SO fine as the roses she has in the
vase, and yet she always smiles most kindly
at it; there even come tears in her eyes
How can it be that grand-mamma always
looks so fondly upon the withered rose in
that old book? Do you know? Each time
that grand-mamma's tears fall upon the
flower its color reviVes, it freshens again,
and the whole room is filed with the scent
Of it; the walls disappear, as though they
were only fog, and all around is the green,
beautiful wood, with the sun shining through
the leaves, and grand mamma-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
grand-mamma's. By her side is seated a
youth-so young, so 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 forms pass
by; the handsome youth is gone, the rose
lies in the psalm-book, and grand-mamma-
yes, there she sits as an old lady, gazing at
the withered rose that lies in the old book.
Now grand-mamma is dead. She sat in
the easy-chair, and told long, long, de-
Hghtful story. "And now it is over, she
said, "and am quite weary; let me sleep
little" Then she lay back, drew heavy,
sigh, and slept; but it became more and
more still, and her face was so full Of peace
and Joy, and it was as if the sun had shined
upon it; then they said she was dead.
She was laid in the black coffin, enshrouded
in pure white linen; she looked 50 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, 50
honorable, no one could be afraid to look at
her; it was still the same benign, kind grand
mamma. And the psalm book was laid I'M
der her head as she herself had desired, and
the rose lay in the old book; and so they
buried her.
On the 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 head. And the moon shOne
right down upon the grave; but the dead
was not there. Every child could fearlessly
90 there at night and pluck a rose, there by
the church-yard wall.
One that is dead knows more than all we
living know; the dead know 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 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 Heth now in dust in the grave.-Hans
Christian anderson.