Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History BookOpen Original Text My Great-aunt Lucy Lee.
Our Visitors
By Isabel Lyndall
When grandma comes to visit,
She very often brings
Her satchel full of cookies,
And ginger cakes and things.
Grandpa carries in his grip
For Dorothy and me,
One of the newest toys that moves,
When wound up with a key.
Aunt Sarah says there is no need
To have so many toys!
She seems to think that useful things
Are best for girls and boys.
Uncle Jack we're glad to see
Although he is a tease.
He gives us each a quarter
To spend just as we please!
BEAUTIFUL GRANDMAMMA
Grandmamma sits in her quaint arm-chair--
Never was lady more sweet and fair!
Her gray locks ripple like silver shells,
And her brow its own calm story tells
Of a gentle life and a peaceful even,
A trust in God and a hope in heaven!
Little girl Mary sits rocking away
In her own low seat, like some winsome fay;
Two dolly babies her kisses share,
And another one lies by the side of her chair.
Mary is fair as the morning dew--
Cheeks of roses and ribbons of blue!
"Say, grandmamma," says the pretty elf,
"Tell me a story about yourself.
When you were little, what did you play?
Was you good or naughty, the whole long day?
Was it hundreds and hundreds of years ago?
And what makes your soft hair as white as snow?
"Did you have a mamma to hug and kiss?
And a dolly like this, and this, and this?
Did you have a pussy like my little Kate?
Did you go to bed when the clock struck eight?
Did you have long curls and beads like mine?
And a new silk apron, with ribbons fine?"
Grandmamma smiled at the little maid,
And laying aside her knitting, she said:
"Go to my desk and a red box you'll see;
Carefully lift it and bring it to me."
So Mary put her dollies away and ran,
Saying, "I'll be as careful as ever I can."
Then grandmamma opened the box: and lo!
A beautiful child with a throat like snow,
Lips just tinted like pink shells rare,
Eyes of hazel and golden hair,
Hands all dimpled, and teeth like pearls--
Fairest and sweetest of little girls!
"Oh, who is it?" cried winsome May;
"How I wish she was here to-day!
Wouldn't I love her like everything,
And give her my new carnelian ring!
Say, dear grandmamma, who can she be?"
"Darling," said grandmamma, "that child was me!"
[Illustration: AN AFTERNOON CALL ON GRANDMOTHER]
May looked along at the dimpled grace,
And then at the saint-like, fair old face,
"How funny!" she cried, with a smile and a kiss,
"To have such a dear little grandma as this!
Still," she added, with a smiling zest,
"I think, dear grandma, I like you best!"
So May climbed on the silken knee,
And grandma told her her history--
What plays she played, what toys she had,
How at times she was naughty, or good, or sad.
"But the best thing you did," said May, "don't you see?
Was to grow a beautiful grandma for me!"
THANKSGIVING DAY
BY LYDIA MARIA CHILD
Over the river and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river and through the wood--
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.
Over the river and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play;
Hear the bells ring,
"Ting-a-ling-ding!"
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound!
For this is Thanksgiving Day.
Over the river and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate.
We seem to go
Extremely slow--
It is so hard to wait!
Over the river and through the wood--
Now grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!
GRANDMA'S MINUET
Grandma told me all about it;
Told me so I couldn't doubt it;
How she danced--my grandma danced,
Long ago.
How she held her pretty head,
How her dainty skirt she spread,
How she turned her little toes,
Smiling little human rose!
Long ago.
Grandma's hair was bright and sunny,
Dimpled cheeks, too--ah, how funny!
Really, quite a pretty girl,
Long ago.
Bless her! Why, she wears a cap,
Grandma, does, and takes a nap,
Every single day, and yet,
Grandma danced a minuet,
Long ago.
No--they moved with stately grace,
Everything in proper place;
Gliding slowly forward, then
Slowly courtesying back again,
Long ago.
Modern ways are quite alarming,
Grandma says; but boys were charming--
Girls and boys, I mean, of course--
Long ago.
Bravely modest, grandly shy--
Now she sits there rocking, rocking,
Always knitting grandpa's stocking,
Every girl was taught to knit,
Long ago.
Yet her figure is so neat,
And her smile so staid and sweet,
I can almost see her now
Bending to her partner's bow,
Long ago.
Grandma says our modern jumping,
Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping
Would have shocked the gentlefolk,
Long ago.
What if all of us should try
Just to feel like those who met
In the graceful minuet,
Long ago?
With the minuet in fashion,
Who could fly into a passion?
All would wear the calm they wore,
Long ago.
In time to come, if I perchance
Should tell my grandchild of our dance
I should really like to say:
"We did, dear, in some such way,
Long ago."
AUNT JAN
BY NORMAN GALE
When Aunt Jan's coming there's such romping in the house,
She's sweeter than a daffodil and softer than a mouse!
She sings about the passages, and never wants to rest,
And father says it's all because a bird is in her breast.
When Aunt Jan's kissing there's such a crowding round her knees,
Such clambers to her bosom, and such battles for a squeeze!
We dirty both her snowy cuffs, we trample on her gown,
And sometimes all her yellow hair comes tumbling, tumbling down.
When Aunt Jan's dancing we all watch her as she goes,
With in-and-out and round-about upon her shiny toes;
And when her merry breath is tired she stops the fun and stands
To curtsy saucily to us, or kiss her pretty hands.
When Aunt Jan's playing, the piano seems alive,
With all the notes as busy as the bees are in a hive;
And when it's time for Bedfordshire, as sweetly as a lark
She sings that God is waiting to protect us in the dark.
When Aunt Jan's leaving we are not ashamed to cry,
A-kissing at the station and a-waving her good-by;
But springtime brings the crocus after winter, rain and frost
So dear Aunt Jan will come again. She isn't really lost.
AFTER TEA
Very often in the evening,
Shortly after tea,
Father, when he's read the paper,
Takes me on his knee.
There I fix myself "quite comfy,"
In his arms so strong,
While he makes up lovely stories
As he goes along.
Mother near us with her sewing,
Rocking to and fro,
Smiles and listens to the stories,
Likes them too, I know.
And I'm sure that she is thinking,
What perhaps you've guessed,
That the stories Father tells us
Are the very best.
#AMUSING ALPHABETS#
TINGLE, TANGLE TITMOUSE
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