[GRANDFATHER KNITTING.]
BY S. S. CONANT.
Lie quietly, baby grandson, while mother dear is away;
Out in the beautiful meadow she's raking the new-mown hay.
It's long since I went with the mowers, because I am growing old,
And they leave me at home with my knitting, and give me baby to hold.
It seems but yesterday, baby, that I was strong and hale,
And not a comrade could lead me at swinging the scythe or flail;
To wrestle or dance I was always the first upon the ground,
And there was not a swifter runner in all the country round.
But now I am hardly able to totter across the floor:
And instead of mowing the meadow, I sun myself at the door.
When I remember my manhood, it's hard to be reconciled
To sit at home with my knitting, and tending a little child.
And yet we are comrades, baby: at the door of this life you lie,
And I at the door am waiting of life beyond the sky.
To a brave and hearty manhood your infant frame will grow,
And young again I shall waken in the Land to which I go!
A GREENWOOD SCENE.