  Great grandmother's spinning wheel stands in the hall, That is her portrait there; Great grandfather's sword hangs near on the wall, What do you girlies care, That in seventeen hundred and seventy-six, One bitter winter's night, When the air was full of sleet and snow, And the kitchen fire burned bright. He stood with a face so thoughtful and sad With his hand on her hair, "Asenath, I start at the break of day," Oh, that bride was so fair! But country was dearer than home and wife, Proudly she lifted her head, "Go, David, and stay till is ended the strife, God keep you, dear," she said. Toward the loom in the kitchen she drew, She had finished that day, A beautiful blanket of brown and blue, "Was it plaided this way?" It was just like this but faded and worn, And full of holes and stain, When our soldier grandsire came back one morn, To wife and child again. When his eyes were dim and her hair was white, Waiting the Master's call, She finished this blanket one winter's night, That hangs here on the wall. And dreaming of fifty years before, When she stood by that wheel, And that cradle creaked on the kitchen floor, By that swift and reel. There's a rare old plate with a portrait in blue, Of England's George the Third, That five brave hearts has stirred, There's an ancient gun all covered with rust, A clock, a bible worn, "Fox Book of Martyrs" and "Holy Wars," A brass tipped powder horn. Great grandfather sat in that old arm chair, Grandmother rocked by his side, Till the Master called through the sweet June air, They both went out with the tide. —Florence I. W. Burnham in American Monthly Magazine. |
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