I climbed the stairs with grandma,—

’Twas not very long ago,

To the attic—full of rubbish;

(P’r’aps I shouldn’t call it so),

For her lips were all a-tremble,

As she whispered low, “You see,

Child, no one can ever realize

The scenes they all bring back to me!”

Then she drew into the sunlight,

From a corner, almost hid,

The quaintest, oddest hair trunk,

With brass nail words on the lid!

Lifting it, she took out slowly

(Once she wore it—you can guess),

Just the daintiest of garments,—

A faded, sleeveless bridal dress.

Just beneath there lay a sampler,

Folded o’er some rose leaves wild;

“This,” she said (I scarcely heard it),

“This I did when but a child.”

Near by stood a tiny flax-wheel,—

Round and round the wheel she turned,

As with it, a blushing maiden,

She her wedding “outfit” earned.

Then beside a wooden cradle,

Grandma in an arm-chair sat;

Rocked it back and forward gently,

With her foot—yet stranger’n that,

Sang: “Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber”,—

And with such a yearning tone,

I softly stole away and left her,

With her dream scenes all alone!