GRANDMOTHER
    
    
        GRANDMOTHER is very old, her face is wrinkled, and her
    hair is quite white; but her eyes are like two stars, and they
    have a mild, gentle expression in them when they look at you,
    which does you good. She wears a dress of heavy, rich silk,
    with large flowers worked on it; and it rustles when she
    moves. And then she can tell the most wonderful stories.
    Grandmother knows a great deal, for she was alive before
    father and mother- that's quite certain. She has a hymn-book
    with large silver clasps, in which she often reads; and in the
    book, between the leaves, lies a rose, quite flat and dry; it
    is not so pretty as the roses which are standing in the glass,
    and yet she smiles at it most pleasantly, and tears even come
    into her eyes. "I wonder why grandmother looks at the withered
    flower in the old book that way? Do you know?" Why, when
    grandmother's tears fall upon the rose, and she is looking at
    it, the rose revives, and fills the room with its fragrance;
    the walls vanish as in a mist, and all around her is the
    glorious green wood, where in summer the sunlight streams
    through thick foliage; and grandmother, why she is young
    again, a charming maiden, fresh as a rose, with round, rosy
    cheeks, fair, bright ringlets, and a figure pretty and
    graceful; but the eyes, those mild, saintly eyes, are the
    same,- they have been left to grandmother. At her side sits a
    young man, tall and strong; he gives her a rose and she
    smiles. Grandmother cannot smile like that now. Yes, she is
    smiling at the memory of that day, and many thoughts and
    recollections of the past; but the handsome young man is gone,
    and the rose has withered in the old book, and grandmother is
    sitting there, again an old woman, looking down upon the
    withered rose in the book.
    
        Grandmother is dead now. She had been sitting in her
    arm-chair, telling us a long, beautiful tale; and when it was
    finished, she said she was tired, and leaned her head back to
    sleep awhile. We could hear her gentle breathing as she slept;
    gradually it became quieter and calmer, and on her countenance
    beamed happiness and peace. It was as if lighted up with a ray
    of sunshine. She smiled once more, and then people said she
    was dead. She was laid in a black coffin, looking mild and
    beautiful in the white folds of the shrouded linen, though her
    eyes were closed; but every wrinkle had vanished, her hair
    looked white and silvery, and around her mouth lingered a
    sweet smile. We did not feel at all afraid to look at the
    corpse of her who had been such a dear, good grandmother. The
    hymn-book, in which the rose still lay, was placed under her
    head, for so she had wished it; and then they buried
    grandmother.
    
        On the grave, close by the churchyard wall, they planted a
    rose-tree; it was soon full of roses, and the nightingale sat
    among the flowers, and sang over the grave. From the organ in
    the church sounded the music and the words of the beautiful
    psalms, which were written in the old book under the head of
    the dead one.
    
        The moon shone down upon the grave, but the dead was not
    there; every child could go safely, even at night, and pluck a
    rose from the tree by the churchyard wall. The dead know more
    than we do who are living. They know what a terror would come
    upon us if such a strange thing were to happen, as the
    appearance of a dead person among us. They are better off than
    we are; the dead return no more. The earth has been heaped on
    the coffin, and it is earth only that lies within it. The
    leaves of the hymn-book are dust; and the rose, with all its
    recollections, has crumbled to dust also. But over the grave
    fresh roses bloom, the nightingale sings, and the organ sounds
    and there still lives a remembrance of old grandmother, with
    the loving, gentle eyes that always looked young. Eyes can
    never die. Ours will once again behold dear grandmother, young
    and beautiful as when, for the first time, she kissed the
    fresh, red rose, that is now dust in the grave.
    
    
                                THE END
    


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