Eaton weekly Democrat. [volume] (Eaton, Ohio) 1866-1875, 1873-09-04
MY GRANDMOTHER,S LEGACY.

/ shut my eyes-am / dreaming? =? L
open them again. Oh, no, it is bright
reality. The close-cut grass stretching
out from my window, down to the over
grown plantation, is the same across
which my ancestors tripped in their
of the revolution swept them away.
The old stone foundation, with its
broken Triton and mouldering dolphin,
then threw its silver spray far into the
sunny air now, a few slow drops trickle
among the mosses that fringe its edge.
Have you ever lived where there was
not something that reminded you of the
dead? This is the chair in which they
were sitting, long years before I was
born. YOnder is the couch where they
were lying when death opened for them
the door of life. Their eyes saw what I
am seeing their ears heard the song of
the birds as L hear them now. The
blue periwinkle stars in the glass on my
tablet gathered them this morning
under the oaks in the plantation and
so, hands that have been dust for ages,
gathered them on some sweet spring
morning in the past.
I am sitting in the little, dark-pan-
neled room where, one sunny morning,
my grandmother sat with her child in
her arms, when a courier arrived, pant
ing, breathless: "The queen is guillo-
tinedl" There was no more hope my
grandmother must fly. Clasping her
babe to her heart, she arose horses
were saddled !; a rapid fight to the
coast a fearful meeting with her hus-
band, disguised as a fisherman; trem-
bling haste a crazy boat on a stormy
sea landing on the shore of Scotland
poor, friendless, with aching hearts.
Such was the story / had often heard
from my grandmother lips.
Left an orphan in my babyhood, she
was father, mother, all to me. Hour
after hour have sat at her feet, listen
ing to tales of Sc beautiful France" of
the gay court, the beautiful queen, the
old chateau where her happiest days
were spent. "You were not born there,
aoauvre petite" she would say, softly.
EtAh! that was wrong; but you may die
there-I think you will. You will be
thankful for that, Mignon?" And her
eyes would wander over the bleak
Scotch moor, seeing beyond them the
blue sky and fowery fields of her sunny
France. Does she know that her half
prophecy has been in part fulfilled
Does she know that at last my feet tread
the rass-grown paths in the old gar
den ?-that for me the birds sing and
the trees shake out their tender leaves
"A new &Ou0EhblOu VI l0tV0S, Dub Sb1u GQ0
same her eyes saw and loved. There is
little changed. A friend remembered
us; the estates were saved, and inher-
tied them. Not much money but the
gray walls, the trees, the fields, are
mine. 1 look around; I say, "My
own" Does she know all this? / be-
heve she does. Her picture looks down
upon me now not as I remember her,
with silyery hair shading her delicate
high-born face, but young, with laugh
ing eyes, and ripe lips just parted in a
smile.
In the long salon beyond are rows of
naughty faces, blooming faces, stern,
wicked, sanity faces. One after another
they lifted the burden of life, bore it
awhile, then laying it down crept away
to their long, dreamless sleep, under the
stones in the little chapel. Now there
is only one weak woman's hand to lift
the banner of the name they bore SO
long and nobly. Stretch out your
shadowy hands that its folds trail not
in the dust! Strengthen me, shades of
the dead, that bear it not unworthilyl
The air is still with that stiffness that
speaks of life, not death. Somewhere
in the distance Jean is drawing water.
The creaking of the wheel becomes mu-
sical through faintness. In the farm
yard the busy hens are cackling, and
one loud-voiced cock is growing Justify
Iisette is clattering about her kitchen,
singing a plaintive little song the
chorus reaches me-"Marie! Marie
6e Uous ainse toujouys. I am idly won
dering who was Marie? And did the
signer love her always?
Presently Lisette's heels click along
the hall. "Mademoiselle's keys" she
says, with flash of her white teeth.
Jean has found them among the peri
winkle stars. I. Jake them from her
hand One, smaller than the rest, has
slipped off the ring. A little leather
box, clasped with iron, stands before
me on the window seat. A few days
before her death, my grandmother gave
it into my keeping. "Take it, mon
e1ydnt, it contains the life secrets of
many of your race. There are stories,
too, from other lips as they were told to
me. You may Like to read them. You