GRANDMOTHERS are very nice folks;

They beat all the aunts in creation, 

They let a chap do as he likes,

And don't worry about education.

I'm sure I can't see at all,

What a poor fellow ever could do

For apples, and pennies, and cakes, 

Without a grandmother or two.

And if he is bad now and then,

And makes a great racketing noise,

They only look over their specs

And say, "Ah, these boys will be boys.

"Life is, oh, so short at the best;

Let the children be happy today." 

Then they look for a while at the sky, 

And the hills that are far, far away.

Quite often, as twilight comes on, 

Grandmothers sing hymns very low

To themselves as they rock by the fire,

About Heaven, the far-off home, you know.

And then, a boy stopping to think,

Will find a hot tear in his eye, 

To know what will come at the last;

For grandmothers all have to die.

I wish they could stay here and pray,

For a boy needs their prayers every night;

Some need more than others, I suppose, 

Such as I need a wonderful sight.

—Ethel Lynn