BY HELEN A. BYROM

Grandmother sits in her easy-chair,
In the ruddy sunlight’s glow;
Her thoughts are wandering far away
In the land of Long Ago.
Again she dwells in her father’s home,
And before her loving eyes
In the light of a glorious summer day
The gray old farm-house lies.

She hears the hum of the spinning-wheel
And the spinner’s happy song;
She sees the bundles of flax that hang
From the rafters, dark and long;
She sees the sunbeams glide and dance
Across the sanded floor;
And feels on her cheek the wandering breeze
That steals through the open door.

Beyond, the flowers nod sleepily
At the well-sweep, gaunt and tall;
And up from the glen comes the musical roar
Of the distant waterfall.
The cows roam lazily to and fro
Along the shady lane;
The shouts of the reapers sound faint and far
From the fields of golden grain.

And grandma herself, a happy girl,
Stands watching the setting sun,
While the spinner rests, and the reapers cease,
And the long day’s work is done;
Then something wakes her—the room is dark,
And vanished the sunset glow,
And grandmother wakes, with a sad surprise,
From the dreams of long ago.

ometimes when I am tired of play
My mother says to me,
“Come, daughter, we will call to-day
On Great-aunt Lucy Lee.”

And soon, by mother’s side, I skip
Along the quiet street,
Where tall old trees, on either side,
Throw shadows at my feet.

The houses stand in solemn rows,
And not a child is seen;
The blinds are drawn, the doors are shut,
The walks are span and clean.

Then when we come to number three,
I stretch my hand up—so!
And find the old brass knocker’s ring;
I rap, and in we go.

There Great-aunt Lucy, small and prim,
Sits by the chimney-piece;
Her knitting-needles clicking go,
And never seem to cease.

Aunt Lucy’s eyes are blue and kind,
Her wrinkled face is fair;
She hides with cap or snowy lace
Her pretty silver hair.

Aunt Lucy’s voice is sweet and low,
Her smile is quick and bright;
She wears a gown of lavender,
And kerchief soft and white.

I fold my hands in front of me
And sit quite still and staid,
Till Great-aunt Lucy, smiling, says,
“Come hither, little maid!”

And from her silken bag she takes
A peppermint or two,
And questions me about my play,
My school, my dolls, the Zoo.

And then she rings for Hannah, who
Comes hobbling stiffly in,
With sugared cakes and jelly-tarts
Upon a shining tin.

When I have eaten all I can,
Aunt Lucy bids me go
Into the garden, where all kinds
Of lovely flowers grow.

Pale roses of a hundred leaves,
Sweet-william, four-o’clocks,
Pinks, daisies, bleeding-hearts and things
All bordered ’round with box.

And there’s an arbor, where the grapes
Hang low enough to reach;
A plum-tree just across the path,
And by the wall a peach.

And oh! I think it very nice
To come and visit here;
The house, the garden and the folks
All seem so very queer!

And though I am well satisfied
A while to romp and play,—
A wee old lady, kind and dear,
I want to be some day;

And so I hope that when I, too,
Have grown to eighty-three,
I’ll be a lovely lady like
My Great-aunt Lucy Lee.