The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1892-09-05

''Grandma" always smiled. Across Der
eyes-they had been dark once, with little
/ Rold-brown lights IN them like a shady
/ brown pool in which the early autumn
leaves were slowly dropping-had come q
little white dlm-liks frost, aud they looked
far away instead OF focusing clearly and
sharply near at hand.
You loved tbs dear dim eyes, and yet
sometimes you were afraid Of them. and
once you said when you saw the picture OF
the Sphinx, ''Grandma, what makes its eyes
look like yoursF'
ALWAYS KNITTING.
The little figure sat in a low chair by the
window so many tedious hours in the day
you would wonder that she never grew
| tired-and knitted with her eyes away from
her work and always the far-away look on
her face.
When she rose from her chair she always
steadied herself with her hand on the arm.
Then you saw how her back was bent and
how she swayed unstsadily before she
moved slowly of
Sometimes her dress was black and some
times It was gray, but there was always a
white kerchief foidel about her neck and
fastened with little round gold pin.
When she neither knitted nor read she
folded her hands in ner lap-thin hands,
with the fingers slightly bent and a curious
look OF patience about them that even q
child's eye could see
THE soLENNITY OF HER TEARS.
She seldom laughed and never scolded
and never but once did you see the serenity
that shone about her roken by tears That
was when your oldest brother lay CLOSE to
the door OF death, and when you saw
"grandmaS" bowed head you whispered to
your sister in awe-struck tones, IL saw
grandma crying" To this day the so
lemnity Of that sight comes back to you.
grandmother sometimes told you stor les
about the days when she and your grand
father ami the three children left Counecti-
cut and came to Ohio in an OK cart, and
now they were three months on the way and
how one night as friRhttul storm came up
they found the cat IN the baby's cradle and
the baby missing. And what CONSERVATION
there was as they turned back and hunted
for hours, until at last Thompson-that was
your father-found the baby two miles
back, fast asleep under an elderberry bush
by the roadside.
SHE HAD DONE ALMOST EVERYTHING.
There wasn't much, although she did
nothing but knit now, that grandmother
hadn't done. She had made her husbands
and cnldren's clothes, and woven the cloth
for the clothes besides. She could make
butter and soap, and cure beef and milk the
cows. She had made shoes for the children.
and plated straw for their hats, and you
knew when you heard these things why
you father sometimes kissed the crooked
hands so gently.
Grandma had a dread of strange faces and
new ways, and slipped quietly out OF sight
when strangers came in, or answered shyly,
like child, yet with quaint little dignity,
when they spoke to her with the ostenta-
tous ktndness that people use with the old.
THING OF THE PAST.
The world and its ways did not interest
her much, except sometimes, when it struck
upon her with sharp sense Of contrast
with the past. This was not the feebleness
Of extreme age or the lithlessness Of an in
valid, but the calm withdrawal Of one whose
active interests were over and whose mind
choose TO look out on life az her eyes looked
out on the world from the quiet OF her own
room, through the clear muslin curtains OF
her window.
This was the grandmother of twenty-five
years ago-the grandmother you and and
many Others knew, the grandmother that
grew old because the leisurely times per-
United 10 and to whom old age was neither
q dread nor q reproaoh. but the 'stilly twi-
light" Of life that bad been as b .autitul in
activity as 1t was ia repose.