The Attic Rubbish

I climbed the stairs with grandma,-- ’Twas not very long ago, To the attic--full of rubbish; (P’r’aps I shouldn’t call it so), For her lips were all a-tremble, As she whispered low, “You see, Child, no one can ever realize The scenes they all bring back to me!”

Then she drew into the sunlight, From a corner, almost hid, The quaintest, oddest hair trunk, With brass nail words on the lid! Lifting it, she took out slowly (Once she wore it--you can guess), Just the daintiest of garments,-- A faded, sleeveless bridal dress.

Just beneath there lay a sampler, Folded o’er some rose leaves wild; “This,” she said (I scarcely heard it), “This I did when but a child.” Near by stood a tiny flax-wheel,-- Round and round the wheel she turned, As with it, a blushing maiden, She her wedding “outfit” earned.

Then beside a wooden cradle, Grandma in an arm-chair sat; Rocked it back and forward gently, With her foot--yet stranger’n that, Sang: “Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber”,-- And with such a yearning tone, I softly stole away and left her, With her dream scenes all alone!