Grandmother’s Sermon
THE supper is over, the hearth is swept,
And in the wood fire's glow
The children cluster to hear a tale
Of that time so long ago,
When grandmother's hair was golden-brown,
And the warm blood came and went
O'er the face that was scarcely sweeter then
Than now in its rich content.
The face is wrinkled and care-worn now,
And the golden hair is gray;
But the light that shone in the young girl's eye
Has never gone away.
And her needles catch the fire's bright light
As in and out they go,
With the clicking music that grandma loves,
Shaping the stocking toe.
And the waiting children love it too,
For they know the stocking song
Brings many a tale to grandma's loves,
Which they shall hear ere long.
But it brings no story of olden time
To grandma's heart tonight;
Only a sermon quaint and short,
Is sung by the needles bright.
"Life is a stocking," grandma says,
"And yours is just begun;
But I am knitting the toe of mine,
And my work is almost done.
"With merry hearts we begin to knit,
And the ribbing is almost play;
Some are gay colored, and some are white,
And some are ashen gray:
"But most are made of many a hue,
With many a stitch set wrong;
And many a row to be sadly ripped
Ere the whole is fair and strong.
"There are long, plain spaces without a break,
That in youth are hard to bear;
And many a weary tear is dropped,
As we fashion the heel with care.
"But the saddest, happiest time is that
Which we court, and yet would shun,
When our Heavenly Father breaks the thread,
And says that our work is done."
The children came to say good-night,
With tears in their bright, young eyes;
While in grandma's lap, with a broken thread,
The finished stocking lies.
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