Year: 1872

many wrinkles, and her hair is quite
white; but her eyes shine like two stars.
Yea, they are more beautiful; they are
so mild, so blessed to look into. And
she can tell the most delightful stories,
and she has a dress of thick silk that
rustles; it is covered with large flowers.
Grandmamma knows so much, for she
lived so long before papa and mamma,
that is certain. Grandmamma has a
psalm book with thick silver clasps
and she reads in it often; in it there
lies rose; it is quite pressed and dry !;
it is not so fine as the roses she has in
the vase, yet she always smiles most
kindly at it; there even come tears in
her eyes. How can it be that grand
mamma looks always so fondly upon
the withered rose in the old book? Do
you know? Each time that grandmam-
mas tears fall upon the flower, its odOr
revives, it freshens again, and the whole
room is filled with the scent of it; the
walls disappear as if they were only
fog, and all around is the green beauti-
full wood, with the sun shining through
the leaves, and grandmamma says she
is quite young! She is beautiful girl
with blooming cheeks, engaging and
lovely; no rose is more fresh; yet the
eyes, the mild, blessed eyes, are still
grandmamma's. By her side is seated
a youth so young, handsome and strong!
He offers her rose and she smiles-but
not thus smiles grandmamma! Yes,
her smile comes. He is gone; the hand
some youth is gone, and the psalm book,
and grandmamma-yes, there she sits
again, as an old lady, gazing at the
withered rose that lies in the book.


Now grandmamma is dead. She sat
in the easy chair, and told long, de-
lightful story. "And now its over,'
she said. 81 am quite weary, let me
sleep little" Then she lay back and
drew heavy sigh, and slept; but it be-
came more and more still, and her face
was so full of peace and joy, and was
as if the sun shined upon it. Then they
said she was dead.


She was laid i'm the black coffin, en-
shrouded in pure white linen; she
looked so beautiful, and yet her eyes
were closed. But all the wrinkles were
gone; sweet smile played ON her
mouth her hair was so silver white, so
honorable, no one could be afraid to
look at her; it was still the same be-
nign, kind grandmamma. And the
psalm book was laid under her head, as
she herself had desired, and the rose
lay in the old book; and so they buried
her.


On her grave, close under the church
wall, they planted rose tree, and it
stood full of blossoms; the nightingale
sang over it, and from within the church
the organ played the most beautiful
psalms in the book that lay under her
head. And the moon shone bright
down upon her grave; but the dead is
not there; any child could fearlessly go
there in the silent night, and pluck a
rose by the church wall.


One that is dead knows more than all
we living know; the dead know the
dread we living should feel at anything
SO strange as that they should appear
to us. The dead are better than we are,
and they do not come. There is earth
over the coffin, there is earth in it.


The psalm-book with its leaves is dust
the rose with all its associations has
crumbled into dust; but above, fresh
roses bloom-above the nightingale
sings and the organ plays; one thinks
Of the old grandmother, with the mild
eyes, ever young.


Eyes can never die, ours shall one
day see her, young and beautiful as
when for the first time she kissed the
fresh red rose that lieth now dust in the
grave. --