And while she was telling you she would be poking the tip of her finger into the soft of your jacket, so that you doubled up suddenly with your knees to your chin; and while you guarded your ribs a funny spider would crawl down the back of your neck; and when you chased the spider out of your collar it would suddenly creep under your chin, or there would be a panic in the ribs again. By that time you were nothing but wriggles and giggles and little cries. "Don’t, Grandmother; you tickle." And Grandmother would pause, breathless as yourself, and say, "_Oh_, my!" "Now you must do it some more, Grandmother," you would urge, but she would shake her head at you and go back to her knitting again. "Grandmother’s tired," she would say. You were tired, too, so you lay with your head on her shoulder, sucking your thumb. To and fro Grandmother rocked you, to and fro, while the kitten played with the ball of yarn on the floor. The afternoon sunshine fell warmly through the open window. Bees and butterflies hovered in the honeysuckles. Birds were singing. Your mind went a-wandering—out through the yard and the front gate and across the road. On it went past the Taylors’ big dog and up by Aunty Green’s, where the crullers lived, all brown and crusty, in the high stone crock. It scrambled down by the brook where the little green frogs were hopping into the water, leaving behind them trembling rings that grew wider and wider and wider, till pretty soon they were the ocean. That was a big thought, and you roused yourself. [Illustration: "TO AND FRO GRANDMOTHER ROCKED YOU"] "How big is the ocean, Grandmother?" "As big—oh, as big as all out-doors." Your mind waded out into the ocean till the water was up to its knees. Then it scrambled back again and lay in the warm sand and looked up at the sky. And the sand rocked to and fro, to and fro, as your mind lay there, all curled up and warm, by the ocean, watching the butterflies in the honeysuckles and the crullers in the crock. And all the people were singing ... all the people in the world, almost ... and the little green frogs.... "Bye—bye, bye—bye," they were singing, in time to the rocking of the sand ... "Bye—bye" ... "Bye" ... "Bye" ... And when you awoke you were on the sofa, all covered up with Grandmother’s shawl. So you liked the gay week-day Grandmother best, with her soft lap and her lullabies. Grandfather must have liked her best too, you thought, for when he went away forever and forgot his cane, it was the Sunday Grandmother he left behind—a little, gray Grandmother sitting by the window and gazing silently through the panes. What she saw there you never knew—but it was not the trees, or the distant hills, or the people passing in the road. *While Aunt Jane Played*