The daily phoenix. [volume] (Columbia, S.C.) 1865-1878, 1875-05-21

thread. forLher. ,patiene6 isoalmost
as beautiful as her, charity, and she
touches the little red bark a mo-
ment, till the young yoyager is in
dreamland again; and thon directs
Tommy's unavailing efforts to har-
ness the cat.
The tick of the clock runs faint
and low, and she opens the mystic
lious door and proceeds to wind it
up. We are all on tip-toe, and beg
in breath to be lifted up, one by
one, and allowed to look in for the
hundredth time upon the tin cases
of the weights, and the poor lonely
pendulum which goes to and fro
by its little dim window; and our
petitions ore al granted, and We
are all lifted up, and we nil touch
with the little finger the wonderful
weights, and then the music of the
wheel is resumed, for grand-mo-
theirs dainty fingers are never idle.
Was Mary to be married, or Jane
to be wrapped in shroud? So
Isweetly did she wreathe the white
rose in the hair of the one that you
would not have wondered had moro
roses budded for company, and SO
meekly did she fold the white hands
of the other upon her still bosom,
that there seemed to be q prayer in
them there.
How often has she stood between
us and harm; how the rudest of us
softened beneath the gentle press
ure of her faded and tremulous
hand! From her capacious pocket
that hand was ever withdrawn only
to be opened 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 baked, the trinkct she had
purchased for us as the product Of
her spinning, the blessing she had
stored for usGthe offspring of her
heart.
What treasures of story fell from
those old lips; of good fairies and
evil; of the old times when she was
girl; we wondered if ever-but
then, she couldn't be handsomcr or
dearer-she was ever little? And
then, when we begged her to sing
-"Sing us one of the old songs
you used to sing to mother, grand
ma "-"Children, I can't sing" she
always said, and mother used to Law
her knitting softly down, and the
kitten stopped playing with the
yarn on the floor, and the clock
ticked lower in the corner, and the
fire died out to glow, like m old
heart that is neither chilled nor
dead, and grandmother sang. To
be sure, it would not do for the
parlor and concert room now-a-
days, but then it was the old-fa-
shioned grandmother, the old bal
lad, and the old kitchen, in the
dear old times, and we can hardly
see to write for the memory of
them, though it is q hands breadth
to the sunset. Her voice was fee
BILE and wavcring, like fountain
just ready to fail, but then how
sweet-toned it was, and it became
deeper and stronger, but it could
not grow sweeter. What 'ioy of
grief" it was to sit around the fire,
all of us except Jane, and we
thought we saw her when the door
was opened for moment by the
wind, but we were not afraid, for
was it not in her old smile she
wore? And how we wept over the
woes of the "Babes in the Wood"
who laid down side by side in the
great solemn shadows, and how
glad we felt when the robin red
breasts covered them with leaves,
and last of NIL, when the angel took
them out Of night to dny cverlast-
ing. We may think what we will
OF it now, but the song and the
story heard around the kitchen fire
have colored the thoughts and the
actions of most Of us; have given
the germs of whatever poetry
blesses our hearts-whatever Of
memory blooms in our yesterday.
Attribute whatever we may to the
school and the school-master the