OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER
1.THERE is an old kitchen somewhere in the past，and an old-fashioned fire-place therein，with its smooth old jambs of stone，smooth with many knives that have been sharpened there；smooth with many little fingers that have clung there.There are andirons with rings in the top，wherein many temples of flame have been builded with spires and turrets of crimson.There is a broad，worn hearth；broad enough for three generations to cluster on，worn by feet that have been torn and bleeding by the way，or been made “beautiful，”and walked upon floors of tesselated gold.There are tongs in the corner，wherewith we grasped a coal，and “blowing for a little life，”lighted our first candle；there is a shovel，wherewith were drawn forth the glowing embers，in which we saw our first fancies and dreamed our first dreams；the shovel with which we stirred the logs，until the sparks rushed up the chimney as if a forge was in blast below，and wished we had so many lambs，or so many marbles，or so many somethings that we coveted；and so it was that we wished our first wishes.
2.There is a chair；a low，rush-bottomed chair；there is a little wheel in the corner，a big wheel in the garret，a loom in the chamber.There are chestsful of linen and yarn，and quilts of rare patterns and samplers in frames.
3.And every where and always，is the dear old wrinkled face of her whose firm，elastic step mocks the feeble saunter of her children’s children，the old-fashioned grandmother of twenty years ago；she，thevery Providence of the old homestead；she who loved us all and said she wished there were more of us to love，and took all the school in the hollow for grandchildren besides.A great expansive heart was hers，beneath the woolen gown，or that more stately bombazine，or that sole heir-loom of silken texture.
4.We can see her to-day，those mild，blue eyes，with more of beauty in them than time could touch，or death could do more than hide；those eyes that held both smiles and tears within the faintest call of every one of us，and soft reproof that seemed not passion but regret.A white tress has escaped from beneath her snowy cap；she lengthened the tether of a vine that was straying over a window，as she came in，and plucked a four-leaved clover for Ellen.She sits down by the little wheel；a tress is running through her fingers from the distaff‘s disheveled head，when a small voice cries，“Grandma，”from the old red cradle，and “Grandma，”Tommy shouts from the top of the stairs.Gently she lets go the thread，for her patience is almost as beautiful as her charity，and she touches the little red bark a moment，till the young voyager is in a dream again，and then directs Tommy’s unavailing attempts to harness the cat.
5.The tick of the clock runs fast and low，and she opens the mysterious door and proceeds to wind it up.We are all on tip-toe，and we beg in a breath，to be lifted up，one by one，and look in，the hundreth time，upon the tin cases of the weights，and the poor lonely pendulum，which goes to and fro by its little dim windows；and our petitions are all granted，and we are all lifted up，and we all touch with the finger the wonderful weights，and the music of the wheel is resumed.
6.Was Mary to be married，or Jane to be wrapped in a shroud？So meekly did she fold the white hands of the one upon her still bosom，that there seemed to be a prayer in them there；and so sweetly didshe wreath the white rose in the hair of the other，that one would nothave wondered had more roses budded for company.How she stood between us and apprehended harm；how the rudest of us softened beneath the gentle pressure of her faded and tremulous hand！From her capacious pocket，that hand was ever withdrawn closed，only to be opened in our own with the nuts she had gathered，with the cherries she had plucked，the little egg she had found，the “turn-over”she had baked，the trinkets she had purchased for us as the products of her spinning，the blessings she had stored for us，the offspring of her heart.
7.What treasures of story fell from those old lips of good fairies and evil；of the old times when she was a girl；but we wonder if ever she was a girl；but then she couldn‘t be handsomer or dearer；she was ever little.And then，when we begged her to sing.“Sing us one of the old songs you used to sing for mother，grandma.”
8.“Children，I can’t sing，”she always said，and mother used always to lay her knitting softly down，and the kitten stopped playing with the yarn on the floor，and the clock ticked lower in the corner，and the fire died down to a glow，like an old heart that is neither chilled nor dead，and grandmother sang.To be sure，it would not do for the parlor and concert room now-a-days；but then it was the old kitchen and the old-fashioned grandmother，and the old ballad，in the dear old times，and we can hardly see to write for the memory of them，though it is a hand‘s breadth to the sunset.
9.Well，she sang.Her voice was feeble and wavering，like a fountain just ready to fail；but then how sweet toned it was，and it became deeper and stronger；but it could not grow sweeter.What “joy of grief”it was to sit there around the fire，all of us，excepting Jane，and her we thought we saw when the door was opened a moment by the wind；but then we were not afraid，for was not it her old smile she wore？to sit there around the fire，and weep over the woes of the babes in thewood，who laid down side by side in the great solemn shadows！andhow strangely glad we felt，when the robin redbreast covered them with leaves，and last of all，when the angel took them out of night into day everlasting！
10.We may think what we will of it now，but the song and the story，heard around the kitchen fire，have colored the thoughts and the lives of most of us，have given the germs of whatever poetry blesses our hearts，whatever of memory blooms in our yesterdays.Attribute whatever we may to the school and the schoolmaster，the rays which make that little day we call life，radiate from the God-swept circle of the hearthstone.