The Fremont weekly journal. [volume] (Fremont, Sandusky County, Ohio) 1867-1877, 1872-09-13
OUR GRANDMOTHER.

There is an old Kitchen some
where in the past, and an old-fash-
ioned fireplace therein with q
smooth old jamb stone, smooth with
lmany knives that have been sharp
ened there, smooth with many little
fingers that have clung there. There
are andirons with rings in the tops,
wherein many temples Of flames
have been builded with spires and
lturrets of crimson. There is a
broad worn hearth, broad enough
for three generations to cluster on,
worn by feet that have been torn
and bleeding by the way, or been
made ''beautifuP and walked upon
floors Of tasselated gold. There are
tongs in the corner, wherewith we
grasp coal and "blowlng for lit
tie life," lighted our first candle;
there is a shovel, wherewith were
drawn forth the glowing embers, in
which we saw our first fancies, and
dreams; with which we stirred the
logs until the sparks rushed up the
chimney as if forge was in blast
below, and wished we had so many
lambs, or so many marbles, or so
many something's that we coveted;
and so it was we wished our first
wishes.
There is a chair-a low, rush-bot-
toned chair; there is little wheel
in the corner a big wheel in the gar
ret, a loom in the chamber. There
are chestfulls of linen and yarn, and
quilts of rare pattern, and samplers
in frames.
And everywhere and always the
dear old wrinkled face of her whose
firm, elastic steps mock the feeble
saunter of her children's children
the old-fsshioned grandmother Of
Of twenty years ago. She, the very
Providence of the old homestead; !;
she who loved us all, and wishes
there were more of us to love, and
took all the school in the hollow for
grandchildren, besides. A great ex-
pansive heart was hers, beneath that
wooden gown, or that more stately
bombazine, or that sole heirloom of
silken texture.
We can see her to-day, those
mild, blue eyes, with more beauty
in them than time could touch or
death do more than hide-those
eyes that held both smiles and tears
with the faintest call of every one of
us, and soft reproof that seemed not
passion but regret. A white tress
has escaped from beneath her snowy
cap; she has just restored a wander
ing lamb to its mother; she length
ened the tether of vine that was
straying over a window, as she came
In and plucked a four leafed clover
for Ellen. She sits down by the
little wheel tress is running
through her fingers from the dis
taff's head, when a small voice cries,
"Grandma," from the old red cradle,
and "Grandma," Tommy shouts
from the top of the stairs. Gently
she lets go the threads, for her pa
tience is almost as beautiful as her
charity, as she touches the little red
bark a moment, till the younger voy-
ager is in a dream again, and then
directs Tommy's unavailing attempt
to harness the cat.
The tick of the clock runs low,
and she opens the mysterious door,
and proceeds to wind it up. We are
all on tip toe, and we beg in a
breath to be lifted up one by one,
and look in for the hundreth time
upon the tin cases of the weights,
and the poor lonely pendulum,
which goes to and fro by its little
dim windows, and our petitions
were all granted, and we are lifted
up, and we all touch with the finger
the wonderful weights and the mus
ic of the wheel is resumed.
Was Mary to be married, or Jane
to be wrapped in q shroud? So
meekly did she fold the white hands
of the one upon her still bosom,
that there seemed to be prayer in
them there; and so sweetly did she
wreath the white rose in the hair Of
the other that one would not have
wondered had more roses budded
for company. How she stood be-
tween us and apprehended harm,
how the rudest of US softened be-
meath the gentle pressure of her fad
ed and tremulous hand! From her
capacious pocket that hand was ev-
er Withdrawn closed only to be op-
ened in her own, with the nuts she
had gathered, with the cherries she
had plucked, the little egg she had
found, the turnover" she had bak-
ed, the trinket she had purchased for
us as the produce of her spinning,
the blessing she had stored us-the
offspring of her heart.
What treasures of story fell from
those old lips of good fairies and evil;
or the old times when she was a girl; ;
but we wondered if ever; but then
she couldn't be handsomer or dear
er-she was very little. And then
when we begged her to sing; "Sing
us one of the old songs you used to
sing to mother, Grandma"
Children, I can't sing, she always
said, and mother used to always lay
her knitting softly down, and the
kitten stopped playing with the
warn on the floor, and the clock
ticked lower in the corner, and the
fire died down to a glow, like an old
heart that is neither chilled nor
dead, and grandmother sang. To
be sure it would not do for the par
Ior and the concert-room nowadays;
but then it was the kitchen and the
old-fashioned 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 a
hands breadth in the sunset.
Well, she sang. Her voice was
feeble and wavering, like fountain
that is just ready to fail; but then
how sweet toned it was, and it he
came deeper and stronger; but 1t
could not grow sweeter. What 'Joy
of oriefp' it was to sit around the
! fire, all of us, excepting Jane, and
we thought we saw her when the
door opened a moment by the wind;
but when we were not afraid, for was
it not her old smile she wore? To
sit there around the fire, and weep
over the woes Of the babes in the