THE NORMAL SCHOOL.
KDITOKS.
Miss Ki.i.a Locian,
A("Hclnlc Kriltnr:
I,. A 11ati:s,
Locnl.
OUR GRANDMA.
I wish I c-nulil paint her for you, just a-?
she appeared to my childish eyes. 1
know you would bay she was one of the
handsomest women you ever saw. Hand
some? Yes, although the seasons of sov
enty years had passed lier on her journey.
Her hair was a dark auburn, and notwith
standing the years she had told, hut few
peal the old nursery rhymes, " Old Mo.
ther Hubbard," "The Woman Who Lived
in Her Shoe," "The House That .lack
Built " and all those tales so marvelous to
childish understandings. From her wo
learned the sweat woids of " Hock of
Ages" anil "The Lord is my Shepherd."
They say all grandmas aie indulgent:
ours was unusually so.
One summer mamma had gone from
grey hairs silvered its richness. She always j home for several weeks and the care of
wore it in a French twist, with finger-pull's
al the .sides of her face ; no cup ever hid
the beautiful covering with which nature
had adorned her head. Her ees were
dark brown; complexion fair. She stood
about medium height, well- proportioned,
and moved with a stately mien well bolit
ling one of her age.
JJut deni'i-l of all to me was the gentle,
patient smile which ever wreathed her
lips; the musical lone of her voice as she
called my name.
Do you see her? If you do, place her
in a low arm chair, with two liitle ones at
her feoi, looking up earnestly us she tells
litem stories of other climes than this, and
you have the picture thai comes to my
mind every time I hear the sweet name,
"Grandma."
' She had crossed the ocean live times,
this grandma of ours; she had seen it
sleeping peacefully; she had seen it when
all the elements seemed aroused to the one
mad purpose of destruction; when the
angry waters seemed desirous to leap from
the bed, too narrow for their vastness.
Her life had not been devoid of sorrow.
She had hurried three bright little chil
dren, and mourned the loss of a husband,
ut whose dying bedside she had not been
permitted to stand: whose grave was to
her forever unknown.
She nevor grew tired of talking to us,
or hearing us talk. She taught us to re-
sister Eleanor and myself naturally fell to
Grandma. I think now with some mis
givings of the anxiety we caused her du
ring that time. We were wiciced enough
to take advantage of her patience.
Our bedtime was at dark, and from the
time we were up in the morning until that
time we played with all the might in our
mischievous little bodies, and when even
ing came we were so tired that weariness
overcame our devotional spirits, and wo
willingly retired with only a hasty recita
tion of our evening prayer. One evening
being unusually tired we begged to be
allowed to say our prayers in bed, and
Grandma seldom denied us, so this favor
was granted. She listened to me first. I
clasped my hands, closed my eyes, trying
to make amends for indolence by being
very reverent. Then she listened to Flea
nor, watching her vjry intently. 1 dis
covered that her eyes were open. 1 felt
this to be an outrage, and whispered, "El
eanor, shut your eyes." She was just re
peating "And forgive us our trespasses as
w? forgive those who trespass against us,"
but my whispered words brought her to a
close willi the exclamation. "1 won't."
Then she began again, eyes open as be
fore. This was too much, and 1 called
out, "Grandma, Eleanor won't Miut her
eyes." I see again the almost angelic ex
prcssion of that sweet face as she said,
" It doesn't make much dill'erence, Bessiei
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