MY GRANDFATHER.

Among the pleasantest recollections of my youth are the memories of my dear grandfather.

I have a very distinct remembrance of the satisfaction I felt when I presented myself at church for the first time in jacket and trousers; and a much clearer one of having discovered in the depths of the pocket of the latter garment a fourpenny bit, than of anything the minister said that day.

I recall my feelings on breaking up at the end of my first half, away from heme at boarding-school. That was very jolly; and if I stopped to relate them, I could jot down several occasions, the remembrance of which I have never lost; but, as I said, the pleasantest recollections of my youth are concerning my grandfather.

He lived at no great distance from us, and so we often saw him; in fact, he made it his duty, and I am sure it was his pleasure, to come and see us once every fortnight. If he had lived at a distance, and had only come to us once a year, say at Christmas time, we should, of course, have been very glad to see him; but then we should not have learned to respect or love him as we did.

It is no very difficult thing to make one’s-self popular with youngsters, if one brings them presents; and especially at Christmas, when most people’s hearts are more than usual kindly disposed; so that if a person could not make himself agreeable then, he must be a bear. Had grandfather only paid us these annual visits he might, by an effort, have impressed us very favourably even had he not been particularly fond of children; but these frequent visits, when we saw him under varied circumstances, sometimes under trial, sometimes in bodily pain, sometimes anxious about some of his children or grandchildren, gave us so many opportunities of observing that he was always the same to us youngsters. The rattle of his stick on the railings would bring us down to the door at once, however interestedly we were engaged; and though we were always delighted to see him, I must say that our hearts beat with a throb of curious joy when we noticed, as we were sure to do in a moment, that his pockets looked at all bulky. The contents were never disclosed until after dinner; the delay kept up our interest, and I think also it was a little generalship on his part, as it gave him an opportunity of having forty winks whilst we were engaged with our presents, either eating them, if they were for consumption, or amusing ourselves with them, if they were for recreation. After the real nap would come an assumed one. We could always tell where the one ended and the other began by the smile that played round his mouth as he opened one eye, and then shut it up quickly, if we were looking. Then he was supposed to be a sleeping giant, or a grizzly bear, and we tried to get near him and touch him, and fly off before he could reach us. How angry he would pretend to get at our impudence; how severely he appeared to feel our tiny slaps; what dreadful threats he uttered, the severest of which, “seeing our noses above our chins,” was always received by us with defiant laughter.

I need not say we ran some terrible risks until success making us very bold, we put ourselves entirely within reach of the enemy, were fairly caught, and were mercilessly tickled.

Then would come a more vigorous romp sometimes in the hall, at his suggestion, lest we should disarrange the parlour too much. He was always more than a match for us, both with his arms and legs; but in our desperate struggles, when I would try to trip him up, and my sister to pull him down, he would pretend to be almost conquered. This gave great zest to the fun, and made it much more enjoyable than if he had, as he might have done, turned us over on our backs like sailors do the turtle on the sands; and at tea time, when we related the encounters, he took good care to break in with some such remark as—“Ah! I must look out when you get a little bigger,” or else rubbed his shoulder, as if by our gigantic efforts we had nearly pulled his arm out of the socket. Though defeated, we were never humiliated; and his sweet, amiable disposition was seen in all his conduct. He always tried to make the most of every one; he would always encourage, or draw out whatever was in them, unless he met with any one very forward or conceited.

Then, after tea, before we went to bed, we gathered round him. I used to sit on his knee until my mother declared I was too big to be nursed; but my sister had that privilege long after she had outgrown the size at which I had to give it up. There were some old stories and jokes that we insisted on having every time he came; and so well did we know them that, when, for fun, he would vary them, or omit portions, we at once detected him, and would have the “full, true, and particular account.”

Always before he left us he would gradually get us sober; not suddenly repressing our laughter, or jerking his face into a solemn expression, but generally leading round the last story or subject in the direction of religion. I can never forget the Bible stories as he told them; he made the characters so real and lifelike by telling us of them in a plain, simple way, and by looking at them from a child’s stand-point. We never tired of hearing of the Good Shepherd; he made Jesus appear to us as especially the Saviour of little children; and as he unfolded to us the tender, pitying, gentle love of Christ, we nestled close into him, and fancied we were indeed His lambs, and that His very arms were folding us to His bosom.

Since then, Ethel has been welcomed into the heavenly fold by Jesus himself; and I—well, trust I am not wandering away from Him; at all events, I know I am nearer than I should have been had I not been blessed with such a grandfather.

I often think of him, but especially when Christmas comes round. It was on Christmas Day that he last visited us. We were sitting round the fire, before the lights were lit for tea, and as usual, Ethel and I were close to him. He was holding each of us by the hand, and, raising us, we stood at his side. He was speaking about the Babe of Bethlehem; he said he felt, soon, very soon, he too, like the shepherds, should see Him, though not as they saw Him. Presently I felt a tear fall on my hand, and then another; at length the tears fell fast, and the words stopped. Looking up in his face, Ethel said, “Are you ill, grandpa?” “No, my child,” he replied, “I was thinking how long I should have to wait in heaven until the Shepherd fetched my darlings and His.”

He died before the New Year, and he had not long to wait for little Ethel.