Classic Poem

Grandmother sits before the fire
Knitting with hands that never tire;

Toiling as though, in sooth, she thought
Mittens and socks could not be bought.

A quaint old dame to me she looks,
Like those one sees in children's books:

With specs on nose, with wrinkled face
Framed neatly in a cap of lace,

From morn till night she's sitting there
Rocking away in her rocking-chair.

Grandmother's room and treasures are
Seen through the door that's half ajar.

We leave it open nights to keep
Her nice and warm while she's asleep.

A ponderous thing her bedstead seems,
Caryen of solid walnut beams;

Children mistake it in the dark
(Or say they do) for Noah's ark:

Upon it rests a feather bed,
With feather pillows at the head.

A wondrous couch! And every whit
Of four feet six to top of it;

To me a marvel long it's been
How gran'ma ever scrambled in.

And in that room she keeps a score
Of books that people read no more.

Of these, I think, she loves the best
That dream of glory, " Baxter's Rest. "

And next — old people are so queer —
She holds dull Martin Tupper dear.

Jane Austen's tales she keeps there, too,
And other authors not a few,

But little suited to these days
Of stilted verse and foreign craze.

But hold, one book she has which I
Must not too hastily pass by:

A quaint edition of God's Word,
Adorned with pictures most absurd.

Let those who open have a care!
Old Clutie hides in ambush there.

His form the front fly-leaf adorns,
Authentic, tricked with hoof and horns.

His garb suggests an ancient sport,
Picked from the last King George's court;

And such you might imagine him,
But for his tail so long and slim,

That makes a loop or two before
Its barbed end rests upon the floor.

'Tis many a year now, I am told,
Since gran'ma read this Bible old.

Not that our modern ways destroy
At all her faith in the " Old Boy, "

But, as she puts it, with a smile,
" The picture's clothes are out of style. "

Speaking of smiles, grandmother's face
Is their continual dwelling-place.

And when the babe, who oft o'erflows
With sayings wiser than she knows,

Cries: " Gran'ma don't look cross nor sad,
And yet she's wrinkled awful bad, "

The dear old soul makes answer mild:
" My wrinkles come from smiling, child. "

Much more, if need were, I could tell
Of this old dame we love so well:

For instance, there's the flower-spot
Each spring returning sees her plot.

She studies o'er it hours and hours,
But always picks the self-same flowers:

Pansies and morning-glories fine,
Sunflowers, like sentries in a line;

A little patch of four-o'clocks;
Some " hens and chickens " in a box.

And you'd be more than touched, I weet,
To hear her sing low — low and sweet:

" I'm Sitting by the Stile, Mary, "
Or oftenest, " My Ain Country. "

But if you'd like to see and know
This queer old lady I love so,

Come to my house. You'll find her there
Rocking away in her rocking-chair.

But don't put off your visit, pray;
She sometimes hints at going away.