An eternal light is dawning, To penetrate the gloom; In life’s more radiant morning Peace waits beyond the tomb. A QUESTION ANSWERED. What is the secret of discontent That never for human hearts was meant, And why the needless agitation That tries a soul and taunts a nation? A discontent would never be known, An agitation would ne’er be shown, If things that are simply prosy and real Would correspond with the high ideal. GRANDMOTHER. Grandmother sits in her high-backed chair, A snowy cap hides her soft gray hair; And while her needles fly in and out We wonder what her thoughts are about. Beside the chair stands an antique bed, With its modern draperies overhead, While, close to the wall, and near at hand Is the newly polished, square-topped stand. Within its drawer lies her camphor-bag, Some spicy cubebs and sugared flag, Tomato cushion, of gaudy red, A bit of wax, for her sewing-thread, Some slippery elm, in a corner dark, Scattered fragments of cinnamon bark, The golden ear-knobs, and powder puff, Near a little box of scented snuff, A baby’s picture, with dimpled face, And a lock of hair, in its broken case. On its top is her bible, worn by age, With its faded book-mark and penciled page. The faithful clock, with its quaint, carved door, Reaches the ceiling and meets the floor. A chest of drawers, with handles of brass, Stands just across from the gilt-framed glass, And is reflected in all its pride; While on its top, upon either side, Whose fancy the modern mind might suit, Stand the gypsum dishes of painted fruit. Near an open fireplace, neatly swept, The box of kindling-wood is kept; While across the andirons polished bright, A log lies ready for heat and light. Beside the dust-pan and well-worn wing The brass topped fire-tongs and shovel swing; On the hearth-stone gray, ’neath the chimney high, The useful bellows in waiting lie. The “mantle-place” holds the candle-sticks And silver snuffers for lighted wicks. While, near to the match-safe, just between, An apple filled with cloves is seen. Grandmother rocks as she knits her sock, To-day her thoughts are too deep for talk,— She lives once more ’neath a cloudless sky, And dreams again of the days gone by. In her cherished dream she can seem to see The dear old house as it used to be, With its clapboards white, its blinds of green, And the tiny window-panes between; And lingers there for a little while, Ere the modern workman changed its style. She sings to her babies the old time song, And hopes that “father” will come ere long; She moves her chair to the waning light To watch the glow of the sunset bright, And looks for a few, pale evening stars While the cows come home thro’ the pasture bars.