Catoctin Clarion

GRANDMOTHER'S SERMON.

The supper is over, the hearth is swept,
And 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 could scarce
have been sweeter then,
Than now in its sweet content.

The face is wrinkled and careworn now,
And the golden hair is gray;
But the light that shone in the young
girl's eyes
Has never gone away.

And her needles catch the fire 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 mind
Which they shall hear ere long.

But it brings no story of olden times,
To grandma's heart to-night
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 gray-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, and 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 come to say good-night.
With tears in their bright young eyes,
While in grandma's lap, with broken
thread,
The finished stocking lies.