The Democratic press. [volume] (Ravenna, O. [Ohio]) 1868-1901, 1892-11-23

Called "Aunty.''
The grandmother is no morei The
modern woman whose daughter has a
daughter is not a grandmother. She
wears a curly front face massage and
unguents have kept the wrinkles
away, and her grandchildren call her
"Aunty."
She is vivacious and up-to-date. she
reads papers before clubs and enjoys
skirt-dancing. She wears fashionable
clothes and gives afternoon teas. She
knows no more about spinning-wheel
than her granddaughter does; she
never made butter, and she EN- broid-
ers. but she does not knit. She is
charming. well-bred and lovable, but
she is not grandmother.
Years ago, says writer in the N. Y.
World. there was little old lady-we
knew her, you and I-she was small
and slight as fairy godmother and
fra ,ile as porcelain.
ier skin was neither white nor
pink. but yellow-white and full of fine
little lines like bit of ivory carving.
Her hair was silvery white and was
brushed back under the little white
cap Madonna-wise from the low, scanned
forehead. The lips had lost their
color, but were still sweet and full and
firm. and always about them there was
that serene look that made you so
often wonder why "Grandma" always
smiled. Across her eyes--they had
been dark once. with little gold-brown
lights in them like shady brown pool
in which the early autumn leaves were
slowly dropping-had come little
white film like frost. and they looked
far away, instead of focusing clearly
and sharply near at hand.
You loved the 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 like yours?"
The little figure sat in a low chair
by the window 50 many tedious hours
in the day-you wondered 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 unsteadily before
she moved slowly off.
Sometimes her dress was black and
sometimes it was gray, but there was
always white kerchief folded about
her neck and fastened with little
round gold pin.
When she neither knitted nor read,
she folded her hands in her lap-thin
hands with the fingers slightly bent
and curious look of patience about
hot fTi,sl
see.
She seldom laughed and never
scolded, and never but once did you
see the serenity that shone about her
broken by tears. That was when your
Oldest brother lay close to the door OF
death, and when you saw "grandma's"
bowed head, you whispered to your
sister in awe-struck tones. Il saw
grandma crying" To this day the
solemnity of the sight comes back to
you.
Grandmother sometimes told you
stories about the days when she and
your grandfather and the three little
children left Connecticut and came to
Ohio in an ox-cart, and how they were
three months on the way, and how one
night, as frightful storm came up,
they found the cat in the baby cradle,
and the baby missing. And what con-
sternation there was as they turned
back and hunted for hours. until at
last Thorn ,,s9n-that was your father
found the baby two miles back, fast
asleep under an elderberry bush by
the roadside.
There wasn't much, although she
did nothing but knit now, that grand
mother hadn't done. She had made
her usband's and children's clothes,
and woven the cloth for the clothes be-
sides. 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 your father sometimes kissed the
crooked hands so gently.
Grandma had a dread of strange
faces and new ways, and slipped quiet
ly out of sight when strangers came
in, or answered shyly. like child, yet
with quaint little dignity, when they
spoke to her with the ostentatious
kindness that people use with the old.
The world and its ways did not in
terest her much, except sometimes
/ WuGu III SCIuCh u POu znOL Will q SHdh
sense of contrast with the past. This
was not the feebleness of extreme old
age or the listlessness of an invalid,
but the calm withdrawal of one whose
active interests were over. and whose
mind chose to look out on life as hel
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 yor
and 1 and many others knew, the
grandmother that grew old because
the leisurely times permitted it and tc
whom old age was neither dread mol
a reproach, but the "stilly twilight" O.
life that had been as beautiful II
activity as it was in repose.