| OCR Text |
Show THE OLDER SHE GREW. <br><br> By M. D. Brink. <br><br> My grandchild sat upon my knee, (A little blue-eyed girls was she), I kissed the dimple in her cheek - "Now, listen, darling, while I speak, I hear you're growing wild each day, Because with boys you like to play. You're far too old for that, I fear, Just ten years old to-day, my dear!" <br><br> The dimples fast in chin and cheek, At my reproof played hide and seek. "Why, grandma," my grandchild said, And tossed her curly, golden head - "Why, grandma - the boys like me, And so - I like the boys, you see And maybe - as I older grow I'll like them better, don't you know?" <br><br> Ah, well, eight years have fled away; My grandchild came to me to-day, With orange-blossoms in her hair, And knelt beside my old armchair. Through happy tears she looked at me (My blue-eyed darling, fair to see!); And of the childish days gone by, We talked a little, she and I, <br><br> Till on the stairs a step was heard Which all my child's soft blushes stirred, ‘Twas he, whom she had chosen alone To love the best when older grown. And when the hour had come at last, And solemn vows had bound them fast, Shyly my grandchild came to me, "I'll play no more with boys," said she. |
