PAST the lavender-bed and the parsley,

Close to the wall where the sweet-brier

blows,

Green grows the caraway Grandma planted,

Though scarce one lover to-day it knows.

When dear old Grandma her "meetin' bun-

nit"

Had carefully tied, on the Sabbath Day,

She always put in her best-gown pocket

A generous handful of caraway.

For the dear old soul would grow a-weary

To sit so long in the cushionless pew;

And oft the parson's doctrinal sermon

Would trouble her tender feelings too

And when she had heard so much "election"

That her heart for the others began to bleed,

Original

She sensed the better God's love behind it

By eating a bit of her "meetin' seed."

Solemn and mild upraised to the parson

Was her dear old face on the Sabbath Day;

She drank the sweet there was in the sermon

—The bitter she flavored with caraway.

Though caraway is not fair to look at,

Though you may not fancy its taste indeed,

Yet still it shall grow there down in the garden

Because it was Grandma's "meetin' seed."