Volume 1 — GRANDMOTHER’S MEMORIES

BY HELEN A. BYROM

“stands watching the setting sun.”

Grandmother sits in her easy-chair, In the ruddy sunlight’s glow; Her thoughts are wandering far away In the land of Long Ago. Again she dwells in her father’s home, And before her loving eyes In the light of a glorious summer day The gray old farm-house lies.

She hears the hum of the spinning-wheel And the spinner’s happy song; She sees the bundles of flax that hang From the rafters, dark and long; She sees the sunbeams glide and dance Across the sanded floor; And feels on her cheek the wandering breeze That steals through the open door.

Beyond, the flowers nod sleepily At the well-sweep, gaunt and tall; And up from the glen comes the musical roar Of the distant waterfall. The cows roam lazily to and fro Along the shady lane; The shouts of the reapers sound faint and far From the fields of golden grain.

And grandma herself, a happy girl, Stands watching the setting sun, While the spinner rests, and the reapers cease, And the long day’s work is done; Then something wakes her—the room is dark, And vanished the sunset glow, And grandmother wakes, with a sad surprise, From the dreams of long ago.

ometimes when I am tired of play My mother says to me, “Come, daughter, we will call to-day On Great-aunt Lucy Lee.”

And soon, by mother’s side, I skip Along the quiet street, Where tall old trees, on either side, Throw shadows at my feet.

The houses stand in solemn rows, And not a child is seen; The blinds are drawn, the doors are shut, The walks are span and clean.

Then when we come to number three, I stretch my hand up—so! And find the old brass knocker’s ring; I rap, and in we go.

There Great-aunt Lucy, small and prim, Sits by the chimney-piece; Her knitting-needles clicking go, And never seem to cease.

Aunt Lucy’s eyes are blue and kind, Her wrinkled face is fair; She hides with cap or snowy lace Her pretty silver hair.

Aunt Lucy’s voice is sweet and low, Her smile is quick and bright; She wears a gown of lavender, And kerchief soft and white.

I fold my hands in front of me And sit quite still and staid, Till Great-aunt Lucy, smiling, says, “Come hither, little maid!”

And from her silken bag she takes A peppermint or two, And questions me about my play, My school, my dolls, the Zoo.

And then she rings for Hannah, who Comes hobbling stiffly in, With sugared cakes and jelly-tarts Upon a shining tin.

When I have eaten all I can, Aunt Lucy bids me go Into the garden, where all kinds Of lovely flowers grow.

Pale roses of a hundred leaves, Sweet-william, four-o’clocks, Pinks, daisies, bleeding-hearts and things All bordered ’round with box.

And there’s an arbor, where the grapes Hang low enough to reach; A plum-tree just across the path, And by the wall a peach.

And oh! I think it very nice To come and visit here; The house, the garden and the folks All seem so very queer!

And though I am well satisfied A while to romp and play,— A wee old lady, kind and dear, I want to be some day;

And so I hope that when I, too, Have grown to eighty-three, I’ll be a lovely lady like My Great-aunt Lucy Lee.