Missy | Page 8

the enormous fan of peacock feathers spreading out on the
wall--oh, yes, grandma's was a fascinating place!
Then besides, of course, she adored grandpa and grandma. They were
charming and unlike other people, and very, very good. Grandpa was
slow-moving, and tall and broad--even taller and broader than father;
and he must be terribly wise because he was Justice-of-the- Peace, and
because he didn't talk much. Other children thought him a person to be
feared somewhat, but Missy liked to tuck her hand in his enormous one
and talk to him about strange, mysterious things.

Grandma wasn't nearly so big--indeed she wasn't much taller than
Missy herself; and she was proud of her activity--her "spryness," she
called it. She boasted of her ability to stoop over and, without bending
her knees, to lay both palms flat on the floor. Even Missy's mother
couldn't do that, and sometimes she seemed to grow a little tired of
being reminded of it. Grandma liked to talk as much as grandpa liked to
keep silent; and always, to the running accompaniment of her tongue,
she kept her hands busied, whether "puttering about" in her house or
flower-garden, or crocheting "tidies," or knitting little mittens, or
creating the multi-coloured paper-flowers which helped make her
house so alluring.
That night for supper they had beefsteak and hot biscuits and custard
pie; and grandma let her eat these delicacies which were forbidden at
home. She even let her drink coffee! Not that Missy cared especially
for coffee--it had a bitter taste; but drinking it made her feel grown-up.
She always felt more grown-up at grandma's than at home. She was
"company," and they showed her a consideration one never receives at
home.
After supper Cousin Pete went out somewhere, and the other three had
a long, pleasant evening. Another agreeable feature about staying at
grandma's was that they didn't make such a point of her going to bed
early. The three of them sat out on the porch till the night came stealing
up; it covered the street and the yard with darkness, crawled into the
tree tops and the rose-bushes and the lilac-hedge. It hid all the familiar
objects of daytime, except the street-lamp at the corner and certain
windows of the neighbours' houses, which now showed square and
yellow. Of the people on the porch next door, and of those passing in
the street, only the voices remained; and, sometimes, a glowing point of
red which was a cigar.
Presently the moon crept up from behind the Jones's house, peeping
stealthily, as if to make sure that all was right in Cherryvale. And then
everything became visible again, but in a magically beautiful way; it
was now like a picture from a fairy-tale. Indeed, this was the hour when
your belief in fairies was most apt to return to you.

The locusts began to sing. They sang loudly. And grandma kept up her
chatter. But within Missy everything seemed to become very quiet.
Suddenly she felt sad, a peculiar, serene kind of sadness. It grew from
the inside out--now and then almost escaping in a sigh. Because it
couldn't quite escape, it hurt; she envied the locusts who were letting
their sadness escape in that reiterant, tranquil song.
She was glad when, at last, grandpa said:
"How'd you like to go in and play me a tune, Missy?"
"Oh, I'd love to, grandpa!" Missy jumped up eagerly.
So grandpa lighted the parlour lamp, whose crystal bangles now looked
like enormous diamonds; and a delicious time commenced. Grandpa
got out his cloth-covered hymnal, and she played again those hymns
which mingle so inexplicably with the feelings inside you. Not even her
difficulties with the organ--such as forgetting occasionally to treadle, or
having the keys pop up soundlessly from under her fingers--could mar
that feeling. Especially when grandpa added his bass to the music, a
deep bass so impressive as to make it improper to question its harmony,
even in your own mind.
Grandma had come in and seated herself in her little willow rocker; she
was rocking in time to the music, her eyes closed, and saying
nothing--just listening to the two of them. And, playing those hymns,
with grandpa singing and grandma listening, the new religious feeling
grew and grew and grew in Missy till it seemed to flow out of her and
fill the room. It flowed on out and filled the yard, the town, the world;
and upward, upward, upward--she was one with the sky and moon and
stars. . .
At last, in a little lull, grandpa said:
"Now, Missy, my song--you know."
Missy knew very well what grandpa's favourite was; it was one of the
first pieces she had learned by heart. So she played for him "Silver

Threads among the Gold."
"Thanks, baby,"