Classic Audiobook Collection - Grandmas Miracles; or, Stories Told at Six oClock in the Evening by Pansy ~ Full Audiobook [religion]

Episode Date: March 12, 2026

Grandmas Miracles; or, Stories Told at Six oClock in the Evening by Pansy audiobook. Genre: religion In Grandmas Miracles; or, Stories Told at Six oClock in the Evening, Isabella Alden, writing as Pansy, invites listeners into the warm glow of a household where the day ends with a cherished ritual: children gathering to hear Grandmas stories. Each evening at six, Grandma draws her young audience close and tells true-to-life tales of ordinary people facing hard choices, sudden needs, and quiet disappointments - and of the surprising ways help arrives when faith is tested. Through these connected story-hours, the children begin to notice patterns: prayers offered in uncertainty, small acts of courage and kindness, and the steady hand of providence working through neighbors, family, and unexpected messengers. As questions rise - What is a miracle? How do you trust when answers do not come quickly? - Grandma challenges her listeners to look beyond spectacle and recognize the sacred in everyday life. Gentle, earnest, and deeply comforting, this book blends family storytelling with spiritual reflection, offering moral lessons that feel personal and practical, and reminding readers that hope can be renewed at the close of every day. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:15:03) Chapter 02 (00:28:43) Chapter 03 (00:38:09) Chapter 04 (00:49:25) Chapter 05 (00:59:33) Chapter 06 (01:10:27) Chapter 07 (01:21:16) Chapter 08 (01:32:02) Chapter 09 (01:42:38) Chapter 10 (01:52:52) Chapter 11 (02:03:45) Chapter 12 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Grandma's Miracles or Stories Told at Six o'clock in the Evening by Pansy. Chapter 1 An unexpected deliverance He being dead yet speaketh. Arise go to Nineveh that great city and cry against it. The men of Nineveh shall rise up in the judgment with this generation and shall condemn it, for they repented at the preaching of Jonas, and behold a greater than Jonas is here. He did that which was right in the sight of the Lord. The Lord hear thee in the day of

trouble. Why, yes, said Grandma, looking attentively at the sheet of paper on which Rollo had printed the verses they had selected. I know a story about that last one that I shall not be likely to forget if I live to be as old as Methuselah. Then all the little Wilbers settled themselves for a story. You must understand that in the Wilbur home, 6 o'clock on Saturday evening was the children's hour with Grandma. They liked it, and so did she. And the thing which was allowed to interfere with it had to be very important indeed. During the season of which I am going to tell you, she and they had planned that the story was always to be about a certain verse in the Bible.

To this end, each young Wilbur was to have the privilege of selecting a verse, and Rollo was to copy them for Grandma, to be given to her on Sunday, and from them she was to build her stories. Not having the time to do so, I cannot copy all the stories for you, but it has occurred to me that there is no good reason why, once a month, you should not join the Wilbur Circle and hear for yourselves. So, without more ceremony, consider yourselves invited. You will have to be invisible, for there are not seats enough for you all. Marion occupies the low chair at Grandma's left. Sarah has the footstool just in front, while Rollo and Harold lounged together on the big old-fashioned sofa.

And now Grandma is ready to begin. Yes, indeed, I remember the day I worked that verse on my sampler. The word trouble was done in brown, and I remember I asked my grandmother whether that was the color of all trouble. Mine, which came to me that day, was pretty brown while it lasted, I can tell you. I was spending the summer at my grandmothers. She lived on a small farm about three miles from a neighbor's. One beautiful summer day, I had to be left all alone in that farmhouse. The way it happened was this. Grandfather and his hired man went nine miles away with a

a load of potatoes, and Priscilla Jane, the girl who helped grandmother, asked permission to go to a nutting party. So grandmother and I planned for a long, pleasant day together. But just as we had finished the morning work, and were all ready to sit down in the grape arbor and knit and sew, who should come galloping down the dusty road but Jared Forbes? He was a red-headed boy whom I never liked. He and his mother and little sister lived in a small house nearly two miles away, and when they were in any trouble, they always came to Grandmother. "'What does Jared want now, I wonder?' Grandmother said. He was all out of breath, but he panted the story out as fast as he could.

Serinthi was dreadful sick. Mother was afraid she was going to die. She told him to cut across the fields for Grandmother as fast as he could. "'Dear me,' said Grandma. I don't see how I can go today. Ruthie will be all alone. Why didn't you go for the doctor? Oh, Jared had done that, but the doctor wasn't at home and wouldn't be until night. And mother was crying, and things were just dreadful. I felt sorry for the boy.

Well, said my grandmother, drawing a long sigh. I don't see, but I shall have to go back with him and do something for the child. Mrs. Forbes don't know how to manage in sickness, now that is a fact. And if Sarentha should die, I'd never forgive myself. Would you mind staying alone for a couple of hours, Ruthie? I said, no, ma'am very promptly, for Jared was looking at me. And the key to the front room is lost, so you can't go in there and amuse yourself, said Grandma regretfully. We had dropped it on the way home from meeting the Sabbath before. At least Grandpa supposed he must have done so, after turning every pocket he had inside out

half a dozen times, though he said how on earth he could have lost it was more than he could understand. This was Wednesday, and we had not been able to get into the front room yet. Grandfather said, as he rode away that morning, it was a shame, and the very first thing that he did when he got back would be to tackle that door. Well, Grandmother hurried away. way with Jared, promising to come back as soon as she could, and hoping that I would not get lonesome, and whispering that there was a whole cherry pie which I might have with my lunch, baked on purpose for me, in a yellow saucer. For the first hour, everything went smoothly and quietly with me. I had just stepped into the porch to get a drink of water. When turning,

I saw as ugly an old woman as I ever laid eyes on standing close to me. She had had, had a coarse dress with great yellow flowers on it, turned up from the skirt and pinned behind. She had short sleeves, and her arms were long and skinny, and she had some kind of an ugly black cap on her head that, for some reason, reminded me of pictures of skulls which I had seen. Around her neck was pinned a three-cornered handkerchief, which, having once been white and being now very dirty, made her look much worse than she would without it. I gave a little scream when I caught sight of her, and she spoke in a whining voice,

Don't be scared, dear. Me and Bose never do any harm to folks as are good to us. Do we Bose? Then a great white dog, that looked as ugly as his mistress, glared on me and growled. I was trembling so that I could hardly stand, but I managed to say Grandma was not at home. That's what I thought, my pretty dear, she said. I thought I saw her going down the road. But never mind, I can wait for her. I would like to sit and rest in this nice place. I see an easy chair in there,

and I'll just sit down and rest my old body a bit, and you will get me a trifle to eat. We know she will be nice to us, don't we Bose? And then the dog growled at me again. We can't get into that room, I said. We have lost the key, and my grandpa hasn't had time to fix it. While I spoke, I was glad to remember that the silver spoons and the choice old silver pitcher and sugar bowl, which had belonged to my great-grandmother, were safe in the closet in that locked room. But think of my dismay when the old woman fumbled in her bosom and drew out a key.

I want to know, she said. Why, if that isn't lucky? Bose here found a key the other day and brought it to me, and I did not know where it. it belonged. I shouldn't wonder if it should fit this very door. She reached out her long arm and fitted it to the lock. I knew the key in an instant. When I saw the door swing open and the old crone walk in, I felt as though I should sink through the ground. I had heard of gypsies, and I knew there was an encampment of them some miles away. I began to think she must be one. What to do I did not know. She had walked into the best. room and seated herself on my grandma's new rocker with flowered cushions, and there was that

cupboard door ajar. And Bose was watching me. Could I run away? But where? Our nearest neighbor was three miles away, and the man was probably farther still, somewhere among his great fields. While I was gone, the gypsy could steal the spoons, and the sugar bowl, and even grandma's valuable gold watch, which I knew must be in the bureau drawer. People never used to lock up things much in those days, and the bureau drawer in the front room was the place for treasures. Get me something nice to eat, that is a good little girl, said the whining voice. Bose here will take care of you while you are about it. So I slipped away, the dreadful Bose following, and went downstairs to the pan of milk,

which had been set aside for my dinner, and brought it and a nice loaf of bread, because I was a afraid to do anything else. All the time I was thinking, what shall I do? What shall I do? There was no use in trying to run down the road and alarm anybody, for our lane was half a mile long, and the main road was very little traveled at this hour of the day. Besides, there was Bose with his eyes on me every minute. I went to the woman once and begged her to keep Bose with her because he frightened me so I could not get the dinner ready. But she answered, don't you be afraid, little dear, Bose won't touch anybody unless I tell him too. At that very minute, she was rummaging in my grandmother's drawer. I knew the pocketbook was there with money in it, and the watch, and a rare old lace cap, and a crape shawl, and, oh, I don't know how many

choice things. All this time, I held my sampler in my hand. I spilled milk on it, and as I shook it out, I saw the words, The Lord hear thee in the day of, I was just beginning to work on the trouble when my great trouble came upon me. As I looked, it all came over me suddenly. Ruthie, this is your day of trouble. Why don't you ask him to send help? He can, you know? Yes, I believed he could, for I had been taught to trust him. I did not see how it could be done, but never mind I began that minute to pray. It was a very short prayer. Lord, send me some help. I said it over and over. I said it aloud as I was going downstairs for the gingerbread and the pie. I stooped down there by the milk shelf and kneeled on the stone floor and clasped my hands together and set it very earnestly. Boes had followed me and growled a low, suspicious sort of growl. I remember I I thought he was beginning to feel afraid of my helper. When I got up from my knees, they had stopped trembling, and I could walk quite steadily. Whoa, I heard a loud voice say. Boes growled,

but I flew up the stairs. There was Jake Bemis, pushing his great head in at the door. I had never liked Jake. He was very large and had red bushy whiskers, and always smelled of horses and tobacco, and had once asked me to kiss him. But I don't know as I shall ever be more glad to see anybody than I was to catch sight of his freckled face that day. Any trouble here? He began, and then I burst forth, Oh, Mr. Jake, there she goes,

and she has got her pocket full of grandmother's things. It was true enough. The old woman was trying to slip off under cover of grapevine and the raspberry bushes. Jake turned his great head in the direction in which I pointed, and then made a dash for her. Here, old lady, he shouted. Don't be in too much of a hurry.

She tried to summon Bose, but I had slipped from the kitchen door and closed it after me, and Bose was a prisoner, growling fiercely. Jake brought the woman back by the wrist, she declaring she did not know what he meant by treating a poor woman so. She had only asked Little Miss for a drink of milk and a bit of bread. and a few spoons and forks and watches and things. Jake said, catching the gleam of silver stuffed inside her turned-up dress. It takes longer to tell it than it all took to happen. He made her give back all the things, and then he told her he would give her three hours to get her gypsy camp

broken up and underway. And if they were not started by that time, he would have every one of them put in jail. Then he told her if she did not call her dog off and order him not to touch anything, she would never see him again. Oh, it was a dreadful time, but we got safely through it. And Jake sat down and ate the gingerbread and a large share of the cherry pie, and told me he wouldn't leave me till Grandma came if she stayed a week. Oh, wasn't I glad when I heard Grandfather's wagon wheels, and Grandma was with him? But how came Jake to come along just then? That is what I want to know, asked Rollo.

That is exactly what I asked him, said Grandma, wiping her spectacles. Mr. Jake, I said, how came you to turn down our lane on your way home? Blessed if I know, said Jake, I was in a dreadful hurry this morning, at least I supposed I was, and I got started just as quick as I could, and drove like blazes. And when I got to the lane, I had to turn in and come down here. I didn't want to see your grandfather nor nothing, and I felt as though I was a regular sheep for coming.

But all the same, I couldn't no more help turning them horses to the right and trotting down here than I could help breathing. I don't know how I came to do it. But I knew I was sure that the Lord had sent him because it was my day of trouble. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of Grandma's Miracles or Stories Told at 6 o'clock in the Evening by Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2 Saved from Need

Cease to do evil, learn to do well. The Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all. Ho, everyone that thirsteth, come ye to the waters. It is rather curious, said Grandma Burton, that we should have just that verse so near to Christmas time, for my story has a Christmas in it. Which verse? asked Harold. The third? Oh, Grandma, that is the one I chose, and I thought it was my turn this time. Yes, said Grandma. It ended in Christmas, but it began right in the middle of summer while I was at my grandmother's. We all went to spend the day at Uncle Joshua's farm. He wasn't our uncle, but we always called him so, because he and my grandfather were old friends, and he had no nieces of his own and liked us.

He kept a great many fowls, geese and turkeys and ducks and hens and chickens. Some of them I was very fond of, but I could not get used to the geese. We were out in the great yard together, my little sister, M. and I. Here Marion interrupted. Grandma, is that Aunt Emmeline Foster who lives in London? The very same, my dear. She was only four years old, and I was very fond of being trusted with the care of her. Well, on this summer morning, who should come marching through the Great Gate,

but six or eight geese, with their long necks stretched? I shall never forget how dreadful they looked to me. I tried to be brave, and opened my big son, umbrella to shield M from their attacks and begged her not to cry. But, bless her heart, she yelled with all her might. I have always been sure since that day that M had good lungs. No one was in sight, but my Aunt Eunice and the young man whom she was to marry, and they might as well have been a mile away. I called to them, but though in plain sight they seemed to be out of hearing of even M. screams. They never turned their heads. Oh, what a time we had. I declare it almost makes my heartbeat to

recall it. I thrust the umbrella at the dreadful creatures, and they every one stretched up their long necks and hissed. Then poor little M screamed so loud that I thought they could hear us a way up at the house, but no one came, and by this time Aunt Eunice had passed out of sight. I tried to speak hopeful, to M, but my teeth chattered so the words would hardly come. And really, if Rudolf Zintel had not come along just then, I believe I might have fainted, for my heart seemed to be coming up in my throat in the queerest way. But Grandma, how dreadfully queer in you to be afraid of geese? Why, even Little Sarah plays with them? Aye, I, Ralph, but Little Sarah has spent her summers in the country on a farm. This was the first time I had ever been in the country, and the first summer

I had ever seen geese. Never mind, Ralph, don't interrupt, please. Grandma, who was Rudolf Zintel? He was a very nice little German boy. I shall never forget him. He came flying across the fields, and instead of laughing at us or teasing us, as I have known many a city-bred boy to do, He called out in his strong German tones that we were not to be afraid. He would send the naughty geese about their business. Sure enough he did. They hissed at him and stretched up their necks until I was almost afraid they would reach up and swallow him. But he paid no attention, and in a very few minutes he had driven them into the farther barnyard and fastened the gate. I could have put my arms around him and hugged him. I was so glad. And Little M. did put up her lips to kiss him. Now, you wonder where the

Christmas comes in, but I'm getting to it. We went back to the city in a few weeks, and one bright, cold December morning, I went with my Aunt Carrie to her mission class. It was very seldom she took me, for Mother did not like to have me go into that part of the city. But this morning I had coaxed. I had a new verse to say, Aunt Carrie taught it to me, and she said every boy and girl in the school had been asked to learn it. I had a great desire to see how many would know it. And the verse was that very one on your paper. Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters. Aunt Carrie's girls were older than I, and while she was talking to them, I looked about for something to listen to, which I could understand. Just behind me was a class of.

of little ragged boys. I twisted around in my seat and tried to see their faces, but a library door half open hid some of them from view. While I was watching them, I heard one say, I should think he would have offered to give them bread, that is nicer than water. His teacher smiled. Wouldn't that depend, Rudolph, on whether you were very thirsty? I think you would find it almost as bad to go without water as without bread. I listened for the answer. But folks can always get drinks of water, returned Rudolph. So can they get pieces of bread, declared another boy. If he had said cake now, oh my, and he brought his lips together with a noise which could be heard all over the room. But Rudolph shook his yellow head. No, you can't most always get bread, he said positively. My

mutter, she gets no bread at all yesterday, nor the day before, and just one little piece this morning. And she did not eat one bit of it. She just saved it for Gretchen and me. The teacher bent towards him and began to question him then in a low tone. But I was all excitement. I pulled at Aunt Carrie's dress and could hardly wait until she finished her sentence before I said in a loud whisper, Oh, Aunt Carrie, that is our Rudolph. He saved ever. me from being swallowed by the geese, and he doesn't have enough bread. Imagine how that must have sounded in Sunday school. The girls giggled a good deal, and Aunt Carrie looked sober and shook her head at me, but I was too much interested in

Rudolph to think of anything else. The moment the closing hymn was sung, I seized Aunt Carrie's hand and drew her over to Rudolph. He smiled pleasantly on me, and asked how the geese were. This showed Aunt Carrie at once that I knew what I was talking about. Then she asked questions. Rudolph told a straight story. He had gone to the country with a man who was traveling in search of insects and stones. I remember I thought then what a very silly man he must be. It was not until long afterwards that I discovered that very wise men spend a great deal of time in that way. When the summer was over, the man came back to the city and did not need Rudolph anymore. Since then, he had been doing errands wherever he could find them. Up to this time, I kept still and listened. Then I burst forth, and don't you truly have enough bread? He shook his yellow head and looked sober at once. No, he didn't always have. And when he had a piece, he saved it for little Gretchen, who could not go without, so well as a man. I remember just how he drew himself up and tried to look tall as he said this.

Aunt Carrie laughed a little, but she spoke very kindly and gave a ready assent to my loud whisper that I might ask Rudolph to come to our house that afternoon for bread. Aunt Carrie gave him our street a number. As we went home, she made me very cross by saying we could not be sure how true the story was, for persons of that class. often tried to work on people's sympathies by saying they were hungry. But Aunt Carrie, I said, Rudolph isn't that kind of boy. He doesn't tell stories. Don't I tell you he saved M and me from the geese? This seemed to amuse Aunt Carrie very much. She laughed a great deal so that I pouted out my lips and felt as though I did not love her so much as usual.

I went to my mother the minute I reached home and told, my eager story. Mother sympathized with me and promised that if Rudolph came, he should have plenty of bread and a little cake besides. He doesn't care anything about water, I explained, but I think maybe he would like a glass of cider. May I give him some? Then did Ralph and Marion both speak at once, while the other two looked wide-eyed astonishment. Oh, Grandma Burton, a glass of cider. I wonder if you would. Yes, said Grandma, nodding her head emphatically. I asked just that thing, and my mother said, yes, I might. People didn't think then as they do now. The best men and women drank cider. Why, our minister and his wife used to think a mug of our cider, which was always sent us from

grandfathers, was a great treat. I never dreamed of there being anything wrong about it. Well, about three o'clock, Rudolph came trudging along. I was watching for him and ran myself to let him in. And mother came to the kitchen and heard his story and was nice to him. And Black Dina, the cook, filled a basket with bread and chicken and roasted apples for him to take home. But the most wonderful part of it to me was when I offered my silver mug full of cider. You said you could get plenty of water, I said, but this is ever so much nicer than water. Drink it. He held out his hand, smiling, but the minute he saw what was in the mug, he shook his head and set it down, saying, I can't drink that. Why not? I asked in astonishment. Don't you like it?

The mother doesn't like it, he said. It made the father sick, so sick that he lost all his money and his clothes and everything, and died in the night away from home. The mother made me promise never to touch it. And that was the first temperance lecture I ever heard. Ralph clapped his hands, and Rollo said, Hurrah, good for Rudolph. Yes, said Grandma, meditatively, I may thank Rudolph for starting me out on a new idea that afternoon. It has been growing on me ever since. My mother looked sober and told me not to coax Rudolph to take the cider. Of course I won't mother, I said, because he has promised not to. But it isn't true that cider ever hurts people, is it?

I don't know, she said. Some people think so. I never thought much about it. But Rudolph spoke up sturdily. It hurted my father, I know that, and I am never going to touch it. Well, that was the beginning of better times for Rudolph and Gretchen and all the rest of them. Mother never had things halfway. The next day, she went to see them and found that Rudolph's story was true. It was only a few days before Christmas, and I can't tell you what fun wee children had

getting a basket ready for the German family. M and I each selected the things to be sent. Em wanted a stuffed goose. Mother and father laughed about that a great deal, but they were bought, two of them, and stuffed and cooked beautifully. I chose bread, because I could never get over the thought that sometimes they had not had enough of anything so common as bread. Then we sent a pumpkin pie and a great loaf of cake, and potatoes and turnips. Oh, a lovely dinner! The great bushel basket was full. and Dirk, our hired man, had to take it in the sleigh, and had a pail of milk and a bag of apples besides. Well, said Aunt Carrie, as she watched Dirk drive away, I think Rudolph will have reason to be thankful for those geese. Yes, indeed, I said, and they were such nice fat ones and so brown,

and they can't stretch their necks at him as those dreadful ones did at M and me, but I think he will like the bread, too, Don't you, Mother? Then Mother and Aunt Carrie laughed as hard as they could. And really, I don't believe I understood what they were laughing at until I thought about it years afterwards. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of Grandma's Miracles or Stories Told at 6 o'clock in the Evening by Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 3. True to His Pledge He did that which was right in the sight of the Lord. The harvest is past, the summer is ended,

and we are not saved. For unto this day they drink none, but obey their father's commandment. By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we we wept when we remembered Zion. Why, yes, said Grandma, with her finger on Rollo's verse, and her eyes tender with old memories, I remember a story about that verse. It is a story which I think likely I shall remember in heaven. Let's hear it right away, if you please, Ralph said, and the others settled into quiet as soon as possible. It wasn't so very many years ago, not more than 55, began Grandma, and then Rollo nudged Harold and chuckled, and Marion looked with grave, astonished eyes, at a woman who thought, 55 years was not a long, long time. But Grandma took no notice of them. Yes, she said,

it is just about 55 years ago. There was a pretty little boy whom I knew. He had yellow hair and the bluest eyes, and he was a dear, bright little fellow. One day he went to visit a nice old lady who lived near his father's old place. While he was there, who should come along but two trim little girls who were out getting signers to the total abstinence pledge. We called it the T-Total Pledge in those days. There was quite an excitement about it in town. A man lectured every evening and had afternoon meetings for the children. He gave them each pledge books, and the one who got the greatest number of signers was to have a medal with his name on it. It wasn't a gold medal, but it shone and had a nice ribbon to put around your neck, and that the one of the same. And that

the children all liked it. Well, these two came to Aunt Patty's door and asked for signers. Aunt Patty invited them in and got out her quill pen, which wasn't used very often, and she and her oldest girl, Prudence, put down their names. The little fellow stood looking on. He wasn't four years old yet, but he lived where he saw a great deal of writing going on, and behold, he wanted to sign his name. Aunt Patty loved. Aunt Patty loved. laughed and tried to explain to him that he was too young. But he said, no, he writeed his name once when Favre held his hand, and he wanted to do it again. That was true enough. One day his father bought him a picture book, and guided the pencil in his hand, and let him put his name in it. After a

good deal of coaxing, Aunt Patty sat down and took him in her lap and held that old quill, guiding it as well as she could, and he did get what looked something like his name in the book. It was very queer writing, said Grandma, stopping to laugh at the thought of it, with that same tender look in her eyes. But the little fellow was just as proud of it as could be. He told of it the first thing when he went home, but his mother, oh, you don't know how badly she felt. Why? interrupted Marion and Rollo. Wasn't she a good, mother? asked Marion. Didn't she believe in temperance? asked Rollo. Oh yes, she believed in temperance, but she had some very strong notions about promises. She wanted her little boy to understand

all about it whenever he made one, and then to keep it as he would the Eighth Commandment. And she said he was too young to take a pledge, that he could not understand what it meant, and he would think that signing his name to a paper was a light thing just for play. Why, children, she felt so badly about it that she just sat down and cried. Ho, said Rolo, I think she was foolish. I dare say he understood. Go on, Grandma, said Marion. Well, while the mother was crying, the father came home and wanted to know all about it, and he thought as Rollo does that the boy understood or could be made to. He took him on his knee,

and they had a long talk all about drinking, what a dreadful thing it was, and about pledges. And then what should he tell him but this old story of the Reckabites, how they kept the promise made to their father, never forgetting it once, and how God was pleased and rewarded them? Then he made the little fellow hold up his hand and say after him, Unto this day they drink none but obey their father's commandment. Then he explained that the paper the child had signed was a promise that he would obey his father's command and never touch liquor. I won't, father, the boy said, I'll member.

And he looked very earnest. But in two or three minutes he was playing with the cat, and the mother couldn't feel that he really understood much about it. It was three years afterwards, and the little boy was seven years old, a beautiful child. One winter his mother was very sick. Everyone thought she would die. She was so low that she didn't know her own little boy, and she couldn't bear the least noise. So her boy was taken to his aunties and stayed there for weeks. One evening he was in the parlor with his uncle, There were three or four gentlemen there, and pretty soon cider was brought in.

The little boy sat beside a gentleman who offered him a drink of cider from his glass. The boy refused politely, and the gentleman, thinking he was timid, coaxed him. Then his uncle spoke up. That young man has never tasted cider, he tells me. At this they all laughed. It was a very unusual thing in those days to find a child seven years old. who had never tasted cider. It sounded almost as strange as it would, to say now, that none had ever tasted water. The gentleman said that accounted for his not wanting some, that he did not

know how good it was, so he urged him to just try a swallow, and kept coaxing until at last his uncle said, Try it, my boy, if you don't like it, you need not take any more. No, sir, the boy said. I don't. want to try it. Well, then his uncle thought he was rude and disobedient and not to be made to mind. So he said, I command you to take a swallow of it, my boy, and I am to be obeyed, you know. What did that little seven-year-old baby do but get up in the middle of the floor, with his eyes flashing and his cheeks glowing, and shout out in a loud, strong voice, unto this day they drink none but obey their father's commandment, and I don't either. I promised I did,

and I never will, not if you whip me to death. Then he burst out crying and ran out of the room. Good for him, said Rolo. Oh, hurrah, said Harold. I am so glad, said Marion. I wonder what his mother thought then, if she ever heard of it. Did she get well, Grandma? Yes, she got well, and was a proud and happy mother when she heard the story. But that is only the beginning of it. I saw that boy when he was a young man and come home from college as handsome as a picture. And I heard his father say to him, Well, my boy, they tell me most of the young men use liquor more or less.

How do you get on with them? And he looked around with his bright, laughing eyes, and said, I'm all right, father, to this day I drink none but obey my father's commandment. That pledge of mine ought to be printed in gold on my tombstone when I die, for it has held me in the midst of many temptations. And there his mother thought he was too young to understand. And Grandma Burton actually wiped the tears from her eyes, though she was smiling yet. "'Grandma,' said Marion,

"'what was that boy's name? haven't spoken his name once. I guess something, said Ralph eagerly. Wasn't his name Mott, Grandma? Robert Mott Burton, that was his name, my darlings. Our own Uncle Mott? Said astonished little Sarah. Then that's what makes him such a red-hot temperance man now, isn't it?

said Rolo. Didn't he begin early, though? End of Chapter 3. Lazzang sur-gely, Pucance-Moyerned 15 minutes. We're like it's the hour dojo,

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no more. Not even no longer. In any You have always done these affairs, and the apply

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24-hour-hour per year, no amount of minimum, nor fray-mensue. You're made for negotiate,

and the app NACCit-T-T-D is made to you need to now. Chapter 4 of

Grandma's Miracles or Stories Told at 6 o'clock in the evening by Pansi This Librevox

recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4 Good out of Evil Our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace Thou art weight in the balances

And art found wanting They praised the Lord Because the foundation of the house of the Lord was laid Give us help from trouble For vain is the help of man Grandma Burton studied the verses in silence For a few minutes "'They are all good,' she said at last.

"'I know a story about each of them. "'I've been trying to decide which to tell.' "'It's the little chick's turn,' Rolo said good-naturedly. "'So the little chick had it, "'and the first verse on the paper was taken. "'Yes,' said Grandma. "'I knew the boy very well indeed, "'who believed that and lived by it,

"'and he got his help too "'in the way that he least to, expected, just as help is apt to come. He was a little fellow when I was quite a young woman. We visited, my brother and I, at a house which was only across the street from a famous boarding school for boys. There was one little fellow in that school, whom I used to watch, because he looked like my little brother at home. He seemed very small to be in boarding school. I wondered if he was homesick, and sometimes cried himself to sleep, as my brother did, the first time he went to Uncle Daniels alone on a visit. Miss Harriet Peabody was the mistress of this house where I visited. She was a maiden lady,

the aunt of the boy and girl who were our friends, a good, kind woman, but a little prim in her ways. I remember she never dressed quite in the fashion. Her clothes were very nice and beautifully made, and cost a trifle more, if anything, than those of her neighbors. But they were always made a little behind the styles, as though she thought things which were a little out of fashion were less wicked some way than others. The young folks of the neighborhood, and especially the boys of the boarding school, were inclined to make sport of her. This always made me indignant, for I loved Miss Harriet. One evening we were seated in the library, having the cozy, time. The boys had popped some corn and cracked nuts, and we had apples and cider. In those days, an evening wasn't really finished without a pitcher of cider. Miss Harriet sat by the window and said

suddenly, Hark, what is that? Didn't you hear a child crying? We listened and said no, we heard nothing. Her nephew suggested dogs and doves and owls, but Miss Harriet insisted that she heard a child. We were soon in the very merriest of our fun and forgot all about the noise, but it seems Miss Harriet didn't. I don't know just when she slipped out, but just as Tom Peabody was flinging an apple-paring over his left shoulder to see if he couldn't make the first letter of my name, in-walked Miss Harriet dripping with rain and holding by the hand a little frightened boy, and he was the very boy I had watched from the window so often. He was wet to the skin and shivering as though he had an ague fit.

We all jumped up and gathered about asking questions, but Miss Harriet waved us off. Not yet, she said. The poor fellow is wet and cold. Tom, take him up to the bathroom and get him some of Robbie's clothes and help him dress, then bring him down to get some nuts and apples. Tom went off to do her bidding, and the rest. of us questioned her. I don't know much about it yet, she said, but I mean to. There's been some mean business going on, or I'm mistaken. I knew I heard a child crying. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I lighted the lantern and went out to look around. I found the sobs came from our old coal shed, which hadn't been used for six months. I listened at the end door, and I heard the

little fellow sob out, I know you are able to do it, oh Lord, and if you only would. Then I walked around to the other door, and found it was fastened on the outside by a good-sized rope, slipped through the latch, and wound around the big nail. Of course I unfastened it and walked in, and here was this little morsel crouched in a corner, dripping with rain, as it pelted down on him from the roof. He seemed dreadfully scared at seeing me, and began to protest that he had done nothing wrong and did not want to be hiding there. But I told him to come in and get warm, and then we would talk about it. When the boy came down with dry clothes on, he looked less frightened than before, and we established him in a big chair and gave him plenty of

nuts and a glass of cider. I poured it out with my own hands. You needn't look so shocked at grandmother, Harold. I didn't know any better in those days. He had a real pleasant evening, and Miss Harriet invited him to stay all night because it rained so hard, and sent her black, Toby, over to the school to ask permission for him, and told him she would make it all right in the morning. He seemed to be so glad to think he had not to go back to the school that we knew something must be wrong. But it was not until he went up to bed with Robbie that Tom told us about it. "'Those scamps over there,' said Tom, with eyes flashing.

"'They deserve a whipping, and I will help to get it for them. There are half a dozen great boys always in mischief of one sort or other. It seems they have made a kind of slave of this little fellow. His mother is dead, and he is the youngest boy in school. They have made him run of errands and do all sorts of things for them. Tonight they planned that he was to go down to Jordans and get them some nuts and raisins and cider and cake and smuggle it into their rooms after hours for them to have what they call a spread. And it seems the little chap had the pluck to refuse to do it because it was against the rules.

They had a stormy time, and finally they threatened to lock him up in a hole where he would have to spend the night and how much longer they could not tell. It seems he is timid in the dark, and they knew it. He was awfully afraid, he told me, but then I couldn't do wrong, you know, he said, and his eyes were as blue as the sky when he looked up in my face. Well, the rascals blindfolded him and led him around and around the grounds, then thrust him into a dark hole and fastened the door and left him.

When he pushed off the bandage from his eyes, no light was to be seen. He had not the least idea where he was, but thought it was somewhere in the woods, and he was dreadfully afraid and cried aloud, he says, but he was sure no one could hear him. Then he remembered about the fiery furnace, and what the men said about God being able to deliver, and he got down in the dark and prayed for deliverance. But he says he didn't feel sure it would come. He was only a lot of the same. He was only sure that God was able to do it if he thought best. He hadn't an idea when he saw Aunt Harriet that she had come to answer his prayer. He knew her, and for some reason the little chap was afraid of her. He thought that she had been told that he had done something wrong.

"'What horrid, awful boys,' I said. "'Do you suppose they were going to leave him there all night?' "'No,' Tom said. He didn't suppose they were. probably they were only going to leave him long enough to get him thoroughly scared. But if he was not much mistaken, they were the scared ones this time. Toby, when he went over to the boarding house, saw two or three fellows skulking around the coal house, and he walked boldly up to them and said, If you are looking for Master Andrews, he is in Miss Peabody's library eating nuts and apples. Toby's a sharp fellow, he said the way they scamper,

was worth seeing. I suppose that evening's work was about the best thing that ever happened to Master Andrews. Miss Harriet had him with her on Sundays and holidays, and to spend the evening as often as she could get up an excuse for his coming. He told me once, with tears in his eyes, that she was the best friend a fellow ever had in the world. And to think, he said, that very morning of the day she found me in her coal shed, I had joined in the laugh the boys had over her because she walked so straight and looked like a soldier. I tell you, I never laughed at her again. What became of the boys who treated him so meanly? Were they expelled? No, little Andrews pleaded for them and got them forgiven. He said they did not mean to be ugly. Darkness and rain were nothing but fun to them,

and they could not understand his dreadful fright. No, they really grew to be better boys under his influence, and one day Miss Harriet had them all to dinner to please Andrews. One of them, the tallest and handsomest, actually cried when he was telling me about how frightened little Andrews was, and how sorry he felt for him afterwards. He slipped out, unknown to the others, to let him out of the coal shed, but it was too late. Fortunately, Miss Harriet had found him. Oh, he wasn't a very bad boy, only a thoughtless one. He grew to be a splendid man, and young Andrews and he were friends as long as he lived. Are they both dead? Oh, no, Andrews died when he was a young man. He was a good, noble man, and died bravely because he wasn't afraid to run into danger to help to save a life. The other one is down in the library reading his paper, and I ought to go this minute and read it for him. Grandma fumbled for her spectacles and went off smiling. There, said Rolo, I had a feeling it was Grandpa all the time.

Just think of Grandma calling him a horrid, awful boy. End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 of Grandma's Miracles, or stories told at 6 o'clock. in the evening by Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5, An Unlucky Day. So they read in the book in the law of God distinctly, and gave the sense and caused them to understand the reading. So will I go unto the king, which is not according to the law, and if I perish, I perish. Behold, I will send my messenger, and he shall prepare the way before me. Thy throne, O God, is forever and ever.

The scepter of thy kingdom is a right scepter. Grandma Burton looked steadily at the first verse and laughed. I wish I could show you children the picture I see whenever I read this verse, she said, though I don't know as you would think I ought to feel much like laughing. Why, Grandma? And, oh, Grandma, tell us what you see. and, Grandma, show us the picture, won't you? This was the chorus which greeted her laugh. Dear me, it isn't much of a story, but I remember it as well as though it happened yesterday.

I was a little thing, not much over four I should think. It was a warm Sunday, and first I see myself in church. I was in my best dress, a lovely white slip with blue stars all over it. "'Grandma, whoever heard of Blue Stars?' "'This from Marion. "'I did, child, many a time when I was of your age and younger. "'It used to be the favorite print. "'Mine was very pretty, and was made in the latest fashion, "'a yoke in the neck and a long full skirt.

"'I had slippers, too, with straps, "'which went around my ankle and buttoned at the side. "'Those slippers had just come in, and I felt very fine in them. I had a sheared hat of white mall with a puffing of pink ribbon around the edge, and a pink bow exactly on the top. I went to church with father and mother. The high, old-fashioned pew was rather an uncomfortable seat. The only relief I had was to kick my heels softly against the back. I remember it seemed to take the ache out of them wonderfully. generally, I was a pretty good girl in church, but on this Sunday I don't know what was the matter

with me. I had the fidgets. Mother shook her head, and Grandma gave me a caraway seed to suck, and father looked at me over his spectacles, but it all did no good. I could not seem to sit still. I plated folds in my nicely starched calico until Mother took my hand and held it for a while. took off my hat and tried to hang it on the button which fastened the door until father took it away. Then I turned the leaves of the psalm book until it scared me by dropping on the floor with a thud. Oh, I couldn't begin to tell you all the naughty things I did. But the last and most dreadful was to fumble in my brother Ralph's pocket until I found a little wooden comb which he always carried. Then I softly tore a fly leaf from the psalm book, and before I knew it, I went toot, toot, tut,

right out there in the meeting. I tell you, that was a dreadful minute, said Grandma, looking sober while her audience giggled. I hadn't the least idea of making such a noise. It had never gone very well for me before, and I was as much astonished as any could be to hear it sound out like that. The minister stopped in the middle of the middle of the middle of of his sentence and looked at me with a solemn face. Father set me down hard on the seat, and mother's face turned the color of the red roses which were looking in at the side window. Of course they took the comb and the psalm leaf away, and it frightened me to think they went in my father's pocket. I knew I should hear more of it. After that, I sat pretty still,

but I did not dare to raise my eyes to the minister's face. I always used to like Sunday afternoon because Mother told us a story and Grandfather took us a walk through our own home fields and had always something sweet and interesting to tell us. First, though, we went to Grandfather's room right after dinner and each told all we could remember about the church service. I generally had my little story to tell young as I was. Sometimes it was only a line of a hymn or a little piece of the text, or maybe one sentence in the prayer. On this Sunday, I had not a word to tell. Try as I could, I could not recall a line or word. The only thing I could seem to think of was that noise I made on the comb. Father asked the questions instead of grandfather, and that frightened me, because I knew Father was displeased with me. What was the matter, Ruth? He said at last. Don't you

think the minister spoke distinctly? I thought a minute, then I said I didn't believe he did, for if he had, I should have remembered a little bit about it. What do you think the sermon was about, he asked, and I said, it was about Ahab. I don't know what made me say that, only I had heard a story of Ahab just the Sabbath before, and he was in my mind. I thought from Father's face that I had guessed right, so when he asked me for any words in the text, I thought I would guess again, and I said it was about Ahab's doing worse than all the rest of the kings. Then Father turned to your uncle Ben and said, Benjamin, you may repeat the text, do it slowly that Ruth may see just what part she has left out. Just think how I felt when Ben repeated, so they read in the book in the law of God

distinctly and gave the sense and caused them to understand the reading. I cannot tell you how ashamed I felt. What do you suppose I did? I wanted to hide my face in mother's lap and tell her how sorry I was. If I had done so, it would have been better for me. Instead, I slipped behind her chair and ran out of the side door. There stood the old well with the bucket full of water and the dipper hanging beside it. I felt very hot, and I thought I would take a drink of water to cool me. Then if father asked why I ran away, I could say I went for a drink of water. It was an unlucky day for me all around. What ailed that dipper I never could understand?

Perhaps it was because I had my hat on. I was swinging that by its elastic when father was questioning me, so finding it in my hand when I slipped away, I put it on my head, and I think maybe the dipper hit against its edge. Anyway, what did that water do but streamed down over my starched Sunday dress and my white dimity collar? And I never knew it until I had drunk my fill. Ben came in search of me and led me back into grandfather's room,

wet as I was and struggling to get free. Put her to bed, said father, in a voice which I knew must be obeyed. so I was undressed and laid in my trundel bed, and all that bright afternoon I had to lie there. My father wasn't over severe children. Grandma paused to say this, seeing disapproval in the eyes of her audience. You see, I had been told not to help myself to a drink from that bucket because it was set too high for me. So, though I did not think of it at the time, of course it was disobedience.

Well, I lay there, and the only occupation I had was to spell out the words of that text to repeat to father the next morning. He sent it up to me, all printed out on a card. I was just beginning to learn to read print, and I had to work hard, I tell you, to get it learned. But the worst was the next day. There was to be a ride to the lake in the afternoon, and I was to go. When I was all dressed in my blue and white, made fresh for the occasion, father came in, took out of his pocket that dreadful comb with the fly leaf of the psalm book wrapped around it, and said, Ruth, your mother and I have decided to give you a treat this afternoon while we are gone for our ride. You are to sit in this chair by the window and make music on this comb. Make it as loud and as much as you want to. And if you'll believe it, they went

away on their ride and left me sitting there. The children exclaimed over this, and Marion ventured to say she had no idea that great-grandfather Wells could be so cruel. She was sure dear grandfather Burton would never do such a thing, and as for Papa, he never could. Cruel, said Grandma Burton, with a flash in her eyes which made them look like Marion's. Never you call him that. A better father never lived in the world. Only times are changed, that is all. Mind you this, I never misbehaved in church again, and I could always repeat the real text after that instead of stopping to make one up.

End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6 of Grandma's Miracles, or Stories Told at 6 o'clock in the Evening by Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6. A Miraculous Escape The word was made flesh and dwelt among us. The two disciples heard him speak, and they followed Jesus. This beginning of miracles did Jesus in Cana of Galilee, and manifested forth his glory, and his disciples believed on him. Ye must be born again. Grandma Burton's face was very grave and sweet. "'Yes,' she said,

"'I remember that third verse "'about as well as anything I have ever learned, "'and it is queer how the second one fits in with it. "'That finishes the story, "'and I have had to wait more than sixty years to think of it.' "'Marian and Ralph exchanged happy smiles. "'Then we too will have the story, Grandma,' said Marion. "'Those are Ralph's and mine,

"'but I don't see how they fit.' I do, child, they fit perfectly. It was the summer I was 11 years old. We were boarding in the country. I remember everything about that summer because I had some of the nicest times and some of the narrowest escapes of my life. One day I went to fishing all by myself. I wasn't what you might call a venturesome child, so I was trusted in many places where careless children could not have been. Grandma did not even glance Ralph's way while she spoke, so of course she could have meant no hint to him. I had some sandwiches in my bag left of the lunch we had taken the day before. I forgot to empty the bag, so when I was halfway down the hill from our house, I found them in the way.

It was a neat little bag lined with oil cloth. I could carry all sorts of things in it, then turn it inside out and wash it, and it would come out as good as new. So I meant to fill the bag with little fishes, and here were these sandwiches in the way. Just as I turned the corner by Mr. Willard's place, I heard a low growl,

and there stood bows eyeing me in a way to make my heart beat fast. I was dreadfully afraid of Bose and with good reason. He had the name of being a very fierce dog. They kept him chained all day. I saw the chain around his neck then, but still I was afraid. I was hurrying by when it occurred to me that here was a good chance of getting rid of my sandwiches, if I could only muster up courage to give them to Bose. I turned back, and going as near to the fence as I could, through with all my strength and landed a piece of bread and meat at his feet. He gave a low growl and eyed me so fiercely that all the blood in my body seemed to go to my head. But he smelled around the meat for a minute, then took it in at one mouthful,

and I tried again and again until my bag was empty. He did not growl at me anymore, but I thought he looked crosser than any dog ought to who had been so kindly treated. Presently, however, I forgot all about him. Some people would be surprised over what I was thinking. They imagine that little girls never think about sober things. But it was that very verse which was in my mind. This beginning of miracles did Jesus in Cana of Galilee

and manifested forth his glory, and his disciples believed on him. Papa had read it at first. family worship that morning, and he and Mama and Brother Mott had talked a little about it, and set me to thinking. It didn't seem at all strange to me that his disciples believed on him. I thought, if I could have a miracle worked for me, I would find it easy after that to believe anything. I remember exactly how I felt, as I sat on the bank with my feet hanging over, and held in my hand a little fish about five inches long.

I was sorry for him and meant to throw him back into the water after I examined him. I thought he was too little to be caught. As I sat holding him, I thought, if this fish should turn into a beautiful little bird just now and speak to me, then I would know that God had done it, and I could believe in him without any trouble. I don't see why he doesn't do something. things now, it wouldn't be any stranger than making wine out of water, and if it helped people

then, why shouldn't it now? So I sat holding that poor wriggling fish, and wishing he would turn into a miracle before my eyes. But he didn't, and presently I threw him back with a sigh, and wound up my fish line, and went around to the other side of the lake, still so busy with my thoughts that I could not seem to settle to anything. I don't know to this day how I came to do the next thing. I suppose I must have gone a great deal nearer the edge than I thought I had, and they said it was wet and slippery there. Anyway, I slipped and fell, and trying to regain my balance, I stepped on my dress and fell again, and rolled over into the lake in less time than it takes me to tell it. I don't wonder you shiver, said Grandma, after a moment's pause, drawing Marion closer to her.

It was a dangerous place. The lake was pretty deep in that part, and the banks were high and slippery. It was not a time of day when people were bathing, and there was nobody in sight. I lost all knowledge of what was going on after I sank the second time. When they found me, where do you think I was? Dragged high and dry from the lake around to where the ocean began, and that great Bose stood beside me, keeping guard, and looking about him right and left for help. He kept up such a fierce barking that the boatmaster heard him at last, and came to see what was the matter. The very first sentence that I fully understood, of all the talk around me, was Mr. Willard, saying in a low tone, I declare this seems to me just like a miracle. I never knew bows to break his chain before,

and I did not know he would spring into the water for anybody. In fact, I should have been afraid to send him for fear he would bite the child. You can't imagine what a thrill it gave me. A miracle, I said to myself. Then he heard me wishing for one, and promising I would believe him fully if he would only perform a miracle for me. And he did it. It seemed just like that to me then. And I'm not so sure, but it seems so yet. If the dear Lord had a mind to humor your silly grandma's unbelief and send her a sign to strengthen her, why couldn't he do it? Anyhow, nobody knows to this day how Bose got loose from his chain. It was found to be not broken, only slid. in some way, and no one knows who told him to bound down to the lake and spring into the water

just in time to save me. He wasn't what is commonly called a water dog, and he was very fierce to children generally. Some folks think such things just happen, but I've lived a great many years, and the longer I live, the surer I am that there isn't much happening of any kind about our lives. There wasn't any need for me having a miracle children. The Lord had done enough for me long before, but he is sometimes real patient with silly people. I know I began that very day to try to serve him, and I've always been glad I did. The listeners were very quiet for some minutes, then Ralph spoke. I don't see my verse fitting in anywhere, Grandma. But it does. It does. It did, said Grandma, nodding her head. I was sick all that summer. The shock, they said,

proved too much for me. I couldn't walk a step for a long time. I used to sit in a big chair out of doors with bows by my side. He was the greatest friend I had. No more growls for me, and he wouldn't growl at anybody I told him not to. One day, Rob Carlton and his sister stopped at the to talk with me. They were from the same city where we lived, but I didn't know them much at home. Rob began to tell me how queer he thought it was that that dog should have come after me, when he had always before acted as though he hated children, and something whispered to me to tell him about my little miracle. I didn't quite want to. I was afraid he might laugh at me, but at last I mustered up courage and told him the whole story.

He didn't laugh at all, but he didn't say much of anything, and by and by went away. They left the shore the next day, and I did not see that boy again for five years. And then, don't you think he told me that ever since I told him about my miracle, he couldn't get away from the thought of such things, and at last it led him to decide to along to Jesus, and he led his little sister May in the same direction. Why, you children have often heard me speak of Dr. Carlton, the missionary in India? He's the very same, and May is a minister's wife. Don't you see your verse, Ralph? The two disciples heard him speak, and they followed Jesus. Rob and May weren't disciples yet, but the dear Lord knew they were going to be, and he

He let me tell about my little miracle and used it to help them decide to follow him. End of Chapter 6. Chapter 7 of Grandma's Miracles or Stories Told at 6 o'clock in the Evening by Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 7. A Welcome Release God is a spirit, and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth. one soweth and another reapeth. Jesus saith unto him, go thy way, thy son liveth. Will thou be made whole?

Jesus said unto them, I am the bread of life. In came the children one evening when they were to have a story. And Rollo laid the verses in Grandma Burton's lap. The room looked very pretty that evening. There was a bright coal fire burning in the grate, which lighted everything beautifully, and Grandma herself was the prettiest object in the room, so the children thought, anyhow. Yes, she said, I know a story about that last one, it happened a great many years ago, as the most of my stories do. Are you all ready? The Hasick and chairs were by this time fixed in their accustomed places, and the silence kept by all the children showed that they were ready for the story without Harold's announcement to that effect. So Grandma began. It was one day in November, when I was about 12 years old, that my brother,

Fred and I received a note from a lady who lived out in the country a mile or two, which said that she wanted us to come and spend a day with her. We were both very fond of Mrs. Watson, and were delighted when Father said we might go. So that afternoon he harnessed old gray to the sleigh and took us around to Mrs. Watson's. It was quite cold, I remember, and father said he guessed there would be a big snowstorm in the night. The house we were going to was a little low one, that was old-fashioned even then, and with only one story. Mrs. Watson came to the gate to meet us and showed us into her warm kitchen, while father said goodbye and her hurried home. We had some nice fresh milk and bread for supper and went to bed early. I was very tired

and didn't waken till I heard the big clock strike six. So I hurried up and dressed very fast, all the time wondering what made the room so dark. I couldn't see out of doors because of the curtain at the little window. When I came into the other room, I saw my brother up on a chair at the window, looking over what seemed to be a white sheet tacked to it, and Mrs. Watson watching him. You can't see anything but snow, he said presently, for the little hill hides the road. Why, what is the matter? I asked, surprising them, so that Fred nearly fell off his chair. And how frightened I was when I found the snow had drifted against the house, so that we could neither see out of the windows nor get out of the door.

My, said Sarah, why, we never see so much snow as that here, Grandma. I know, dear, said Grandma Burton, but where I lived when I was a little girl was much farther north than we are now, you know, and I remember that in the winters we often used to go out sleigh-riding and ride over the tops of the fences, not being able to see them at all. What fun! Now go on, Grandma! Well, we tried to make a way through the drift, but didn't succeed. My brother said he thought he could shovel a path, but Mrs. Watson told him she had lent her big shovel to Mr. Smith the day before, while his was getting mended, and had only a little one for the fire. So all there was to do was to get breakfast and wait for someone to come and dig us out of the drift,

or rather dig the drift away from us. We did pretty well for breakfast, only we hadn't any bread. I was out of flour, said Mrs. Watson, before I knew it, and Mr. Jones was to bring me another barrel this morning. But I don't suppose he will come now that there is so much snow. The turkey was there in the pantry, so were the cranberries. Mrs. Watson let Fred and me help to cook them for dinner, and we tried to make the best of our condition

and think as little as possible of the great wall of snow outside the house. But it was hard work. Every little while the tears would come into my eyes to think of my dear father and mother at home not knowing how we were snowed up in the little red farmhouse. A little while after breakfast we all sat down to have family worship, and Mrs. Watson, taking down her big old Bible,

read part of the sixth chapter of John. I remember it now, just as well as I did years ago, how she read about Jesus feeding that great multitude when they had nothing to eat, and then how he told his disciples afterwards what was the best bread to have, and said, I am the bread of life. He that cometh to me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on me shall never thirst. Children, said Mrs. Watson, when she had finished reading, Jesus can give us the bread we eat and the bread of life just as well now as he could then. Let us ask him for the two kinds. And then we knelt down, and she prayed very earnestly that God would not only give us the bread that we needed then to eat, but would also give us

the blessed bread of life. And I am sure Fred and I prayed, too. The dinner was a pretty good one, with the turkey and all, but we missed the bread again. It is wonderful how much you do need that, no matter what else you have. I had often thought that I could get along just as well without bread as with it, if I had plenty of other things, but I saw in just that one day how necessary it was. We had a pretty lonely afternoon, nearly always when we went to see Mrs. Watson, we had a very good time, but with that great wall of snow outside the house, and the weather growing colder and colder so that it couldn't melt, it was impossible to be very happy, no matter how much we tried. It seemed awful to go to bed feeling so badly,

though I knew that father would be after us in the morning. Every little while, all the afternoon, I would flatten my nose against the window, and after looking at the snow a minute, I would shut my eyes tight and pray to God that he would have somebody come and help us soon, and I really thought he would answer. When supper time came, and the clock struck six, we were all really glad, for we hadn't eaten so very much for dinner and were pretty hungry. Besides, supper would give us something to do. But there wasn't much of it. it, no bread and no milk, only a little cold turkey for each of us, for the coal was all gone and we couldn't cook anything. The room was growing cold. I put mother's shawl around me,

and Fred put on his overcoat, while Mrs. Watson got her shawl too. We had to light a candle long before suppertime. It got dark so early when only a little bit of light could come in at the windows. So there we sat in the cold kitchen. Once or twice Mrs. Watson suggested that my brother and I should go to bed, but he was sure he didn't want to, neither did I. So she got out an old game of checkers, and we played a while till we grew sleepy in spite of ourselves, and I dropped off into Dreamland with my head on Mrs. Watson's lap, and Fred with his on the table. I didn't wake in, but I didn't wake till the clock struck ten, and then I sat up and looked about me in surprise. I could hardly remember where I was, when suddenly I heard a dull thud, which made all of us jump. We opened the front door wide.

Just as we did so, a great mass of snow came into our faces. Soon a shovel appeared, and next, the face of my father. Oh, how glad we were! He stepped into the room, and threw his arms about Fred and me, covering us with a coating of snow. Two or three more men came in then, one of them with a basket which had been sent by my mother. And as Mrs. Watson took off the cover, I spied a huge piece of bread and butter and contented myself with that. You can't think how good it was to have some bread again. It seemed a year since I had had any. That's about all there is to tell, except that in the morning, Father drove Fred and me home in the sleigh, just as we had come.

The reason the verse made me think of that day was that I had never before realized how valuable and necessary bread was, and why Jesus called himself the bread of life. My brother told me, a great many years after, that he believed that day was the first time he ever really made up his mind to come to the bread of life, and never hunger again. Why hadn't they come sooner? asked Rollo. They didn't know Mrs. Watson's house was snowed up, so. It was out in the country, you know, and the snow hadn't drifted so badly in the town.

But they missed us from meeting in the morning, and in the afternoon a man came into town and told them he had seen the house with the wall of snow all around it. So they got their shovels and came right out to help us. I think it was dreadful, said Mary. But God was taking care of us, dearie, said Grandma, and he heard and answered our prayers. End of Chapter 7. Chapter 8 of Grandma's Miracles or Stories Told at 6 o'clock in the Evening by Pansy. The Slibrovoc's recording is in the public domain. Chapter 8 The Danger of Irreverance

Lord Evermore Give Us This Bread thou art the Christ the son of the living God. Your father Abraham rejoiced to see my day, and he saw it and was glad. Why, you found another verse about bread, said Grandma, then her eyes grew thoughtful. Association is a queer thing, children, association of ideas I mean. Some people might think that Grandma Burton used large words in talking to her grandchildren, But the fact was, she did not try very hard to make her words little. Not that she selected long ones, her language was always simple,

but words which they would be likely to hear among cultured people, or to see in their books, she aimed to use in talking with them. If they did not understand a word, they were always at liberty to ask its meaning. The consequence was they were quite intelligent children, and the phrase, association of ideas, did not trouble the older ones in the least. As for little Sarah, she did not bother her brains about it, meanwhile. Now you wouldn't suppose, continued Grandma, that there was anything in that verse to make me think of a large, old-fashioned farmhouse kitchen

with a wooden bowl on the table and a wooden spoon hanging over it, and old-fashioned dishes arranged on the shelf above it, and a woman in a straight dress and neckerchief, bending over the bread bowl, and a little girl, with a high-necked apron on, standing before an old-fashioned churn, moving the dasher up and down. Yet I see all those things as plainly as though it were yesterday morning

instead of sixty-odd years ago. What makes it, Grandma? What happened? and Marion settled little Sarah more comfortably on the hassock and straightened herself ready to listen. Why, it is this association of ideas I was speaking of. My memory of that verse about bread is mixed in with all those scenes. I was the little girl moving the dasher. You see, it was this way. Mother was very sick that spring, and father had to take her to the city to be under the care of a great doctor. and he had to stay with her. So we children were scattered. I went to spend a week with Aunt Pat Worcester. What a horrid name for a woman, said Rollo. Oh, it was a nice name. Patriot, the whole name was,

but almost everybody called her Aunt Pat. She was a splendid woman. People all respected her. She was my father's aunt, and he had lived with her a good deal when he was a boy and loved her very much. He liked to have me stay with her. That winter, or spring it was, she had a nephew living with her, a great red-headed boy named Jeremiah, only we always said Jerry. I didn't like him very well. He was a smart, bright boy, and might have been pleasant, only he was always teasing children, than himself, telling them things which were not true, threatening to drown them, you know, or bury them alive, or something of that sort, things that he had no more notion of doing

than he had of flying. But they were too young to know it, poor things, and he had that kind of evil nature, which seemed to be pleased with making others uncomfortable. He didn't trouble me much, because I kept close to Aunt Pat. But once in a while, he would wink his great eyes at me and tell me he was going to swallow me one day when Aunt Pat wasn't looking. Grandma's children all laughed at this, and Marion questioned, Why, Grandma, surely you didn't believe that, did you? No, child, not exactly, of course. And yet, I couldn't help feeling kind of creepy all over when I was in danger of being left alone with him, and I thought of his great mouth. It was my opinion,

that little folks suffer from these things more than older ones have any idea. I should despise a boy who would descend to so mean a trick as trying to tease one younger than himself. Harold looked out of the window steadily, his cheeks a trifle red. The question was, did Grandma know, or did she not know, that he told little Bobby White the other day he was going to tie him to the top of the great big flagstaff at the corner and leave him swinging there for a flag because his dress was red and his collar was white and his eyes were blue. But Grandma did not look at Harold.

Aunt Pat was molding bread in the great wooden bowl, and I was moving the dasher up and down very slowly and watching her all the while. I wanted to learn how to make bread, and I asked a great many questions, But, after all, the thought most in my mind, and which I said nothing about after a fashion which children often have, was this very story about Jesus feeding the 5,000 people with five loaves of bread. Only the day before, which had been Sunday, Aunt Pat had read this whole story to Jerry and me, and talked it over. She was an excellent hand to tell Bible stories. She made them seem so real. She explained the size of the loaves and all about it.

When I saw the great big ones she was molding, I thought they would have fed a great many more people than the little lads. And from that I went on, thinking out the story and the way those people followed Jesus the next day and asked for the bread which would keep them from getting hungry again without understanding at all what they were asking for. Aunt Pat said they prayed just as many people do now, days, asked great big things without thinking of them or wanting them very much. Just then Jerry came in, blowing his fingers and pretending to be very cold. It was a rather sharp spring morning, and he had

been out at the wood pile. He said he wasn't so cold, though, as he was hungry. Aunt Pat laughed, and said she wondered if there was ever a boy made who wasn't hungry all the time. Then she looked at the clock and found it was about the time when she always gave Jerry a lunch, for he had been up and at work since five in the morning. Oh, he had his breakfast, of course, a little after five, but Aunt Pat always gave him a piece in the middle of the forenoon. By this time, she had her loaves all nicely molded, and she went to the closet to cut him a thick slice of the most excellent bread, and spread it with butter that smelled like June roses. Jerry took great bites of it with a satisfied air,

smacking his lips to show how good it was. It must have brought some thought of the very story I was thinking about, for suddenly he spoke out, Evermore give us this bread. I say so too. Then Aunt Pat's eyes flashed. Jeremiah, she said, and her voice was very stern, You are named after too good a man

to be guilty of making fun of Scripture in any such way, repeating a prayer, too, and not meaning it any more than the heathen do when they mumble words to their little stone gods. I'm ashamed of you. Jerry looked a little abashed, and muttered that he didn't mean any harm, but I remember to this day just how wrought up Aunt Patriot was about it.

She told Jerry that boys who commenced by turning sacred words to fit their own notions, often ended by being profane, wicked men. And that's just the way Jeremiah Carter ended. I haven't thought of him for many a day, but he grew up to be a bad man. After all, said Rollo, after a few moments of silence, you don't think, Grandma, that quoting that Bible verse made a bad man of him? No, said Grandma, speaking so. slowly, giving her head a little doubtful shake the while. I wouldn't like to say that. Boys do

trifle with serious words sometimes, and get over it and make good men. I should be sorry enough if I thought they didn't. But then Jeremiah Carter was exactly that kind of a boy. He had no reverence for the Bible, nor for words of prayer. He was tempted to make fun of everything, and he was tempted to make fun of everything, and he got so used to it that after a while nothing of that kind shocked him. He became one of those men who pretended not to believe the Bible, and sometimes I have thought that if he had not learned to make light of it when he was a boy, it would not have come so handy when he grew up. Anyhow, it always makes me think of Jeremiah Carter when I hear anybody doing it,

and he isn't a pleasant body to think of, I can tell you. He died a good many years ago, and they said his last word was a profane one. The grandchildren made no other comments, and Rollo presently began to whistle. He knew one thing, and that was, it was a great temptation to him to quote a Bible verse now and then for his own use. Not anything so wicked as Jeremiah did, but in a way that his grandmother he knew would call light and trifling. He wasn't sure whether anybody else had noticed this habit, and he made up his mind while he whistled that they should never again have a chance to notice it in him.

End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of Grandma's Miracles or Stories Told at 6 o'clock in the Evening by Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 9. Saved from Blindness One thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see. I am the good shepherd, the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep. Our friend Lazarus sleepeth, but I go that I may awake him out of sleep. Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life.

This first verse makes me think of another of my miracles, grandma said, with a very very tender smile on her face. Grandma, said Marion, with almost a shade of reproach in her voice, did you truly have miracles done for you? I thought so, child, and I don't know, but I thought pretty near right. They were the dear Lord's loving kindnesses and tender mercies to a naughty child, and those are miracles enough for reasonable people. I'll tell you the story and see what you think about it. It was afternoon, and everybody in our house was very busy. There was to be a great celebration the next day, the largest which had ever been in that part of the world. The speaker was to stop at our house, and several of the leading men were coming to take supper with him, and in the evening there were to be fireworks, great, wonderful fireballs, such as we don't see nowadays, and fine doings of all sorts. By the middle of the afternoon, Mother began to look very tired. I can seem to see her face now as she stood looking at the sideboard with its rows of shining dishes. That drawer ought to be cleared out, said she, and fixed for the changes of knives and forks and spoons.

But I don't know who can do it. Everybody's hands are full, and it is full of all sorts of things. She wasn't speaking to anybody in particular, just talking low to herself. I was only a little girl eight years old, and not supposed to notice all that was going on. But I heard it, and decided then and there that as soon as my mother went out, I would set to work at that drawer myself. And I did. It was a hard drawer to clear out, one of those places where in a hurried time things get put that don't belong. and you don't exactly know where they do belong. I worked away at it faithfully until my back ached with stooping, and every nerve in my body seemed to be on the jump. Over in the corner sat my grandfather talking with an old friend of his. They did not notice me, but I heard snatches of their talk about the grand doings which were to be on the next day, and it seemed to me I could hardly wait. My work was almost done, and I was busy with the thought of how pleased mother would be when I took up a long, delicate glass bottle filled with some liquid. The glass was so thin,

I tried to look through it. As I held it up against the light, my hands must have been trembling with weariness and eagerness, for somehow, I never could understand how, that bottle slipped from me and shivered to bits on the hard floor. The liquid spilled over my hands and spattered on my face and eyes, and in an instant they began to burn as though they were in a flame of fire. To make matters worse, I clapped both hands all wet as they were right on my eyes. This made the pain more dreadful than ever. It all happened in a moment of time, the scream and mother running and grandfather springing up, and me tumbling over against mother, and and hearing her say with a groan, Oh, Ruthie, Ruthie, she has put out her eyes. Then, for a few blessed minutes, I was free from pain. I fainted dead away for the first time in my life.

The faint didn't last long. The pain in my eyes was too great. Oh, it was a dreadful time. Father went hurrying after the doctor, and mother tried cold water and milk and bran water, and everything else she could think of to relieve my suffering. But Grandma, what was it? What had you done? Interrupted Marion, her face pale with sympathy. There was some dreadful liquid in the bottle, dear, that had burned Grandma's eyes and her skin

wherever it touched, and the doctor was afraid my eyes were put out. Mother said afterwards that she knew he thought so by the look on his face, and by his refusing to answer her questions. He put something on at last, which relieved the pain a little, then my eyes were bandaged and I was put to bed. My dear mother, when she stooped down to kiss me after everything was done, did not forget to whisper that I was a dear little girl to try to help mother, and that the drawer looked beautiful. I sat up to the supper table that very night, but with bandaged eyes that ached a good deal,

and everyone at the table wore a sober face. I could tell by the sound of their voices. I don't know whether Father just happened to read those verses at family worship that night, or whether the trouble made him think of them. However it was, he read the story of the blind man who was cured, and who, when the people questioned and questioned him, could only give this answer. One thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see.

Father's voice trembled over the word blind, and mother cried. I could feel her tears dropping on my hand. But I did not shed a tear. My heart was full of a great thought. Jesus had cured that blind man with a touch, and my Bible verse the Sunday before had been Jesus Christ the same yesterday and today and forever. Why couldn't he cure people in just the same way now? Why didn't he? Perhaps he did, only I had never heard of it. Father's prayer made the thought all the stronger. He asked the Lord to bless their little girl, and if it was possible to take away the fear which was gnawing at their hearts. He didn't think I would understand. Mother did not know she had screamed out that I had put out my eyes. But I heard her. I knew all about it. I remember the time when

the dog slipped his chain and came and saved me. I thought God sent him, and God could in some way cure me now. Every waking minute that night I prayed to him to cure me. The first thing I did in the morning was to pray the same prayer. I will not deny that I thought about the beautiful fireballs and all the wonders of the evening, and I asked God, since he could do it just as well, to cure me quick, that I might see all the lovely things. Well, children, Grandma dropped her knitting, and leaning forward folded her soft white hands over her knee in an impressive way she had, and looked at her attentive little audience squarely in the face. I don't know how it was.

I don't pretend to explain it, never have. But when the doctor came that morning and said he must take off the bandages to bathe my eyes and warned me that the light would hurt very much and I must try to be brave, and told my mother that when he saw my eyes he could give her an idea of how many months I would have to wear the bandage. and when everything was ready and mother had me in her arms and father sat on the other side and held my hand and the doctor unpinned the bandage, I looked straight at father with two eyes that did not even wink and said, Father, they don't hurt a bit, not a single bit. Why, we had almost as much of a time then as he had had the night before. That doctor couldn't seem to believe it.

He was determined my eyes should burn, and sure that I could not see father's face. But I saw everything as plain as I do this minute, and my eyes did not hurt at all. I continued to see all day, and at night I saw the fireballs, and laughed and made Mary with the rest, the happiest girl I do believe that ever sat down to a celebration feast. I believed that the dear Lord had touched my eyes and cured them. But Grandma, said skeptical Ralph, do you really think it was so? Don't you suppose the stuff in the bottle was weaker than they thought,

and the doctor's medicine in the night's sleep cured your eyes? I don't know, said Grandma, taking up her knitting again. All I know is this. The stuff burned so that I thought for a minute, the whole of me was on fire. And when I came out of my faint and tried to look up at mother, I couldn't see a thing. And they all believed that if my eyesight was not quite gone, it would be months and months before I could see again, and never so well as before. And I know that in the morning, when the bandage was taken off, I could see a good deal better than I can now,

and my eyes never ached a bit from it afterwards. It is a little piece of the old story. Grandma can't explain it, couldn't then. One thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of Grandma's Miracles, or stories told at 6 o'clock in the evening by Pansy. The Slibervok's recording is in the public domain. Chapter 10.

Self-confidence Humbolded. Hosanna, Blessed is the King of Israel, that cometh in the name of the Lord, and I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me. If ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them. Wherefore, let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed, lest he fall. Let not your heart be troubled, ye believe in God, believe also in me. Here is another chance to fit my story to two of your verses, said Grandma, and all the young Bertens looked glad. It was the summer I was 12, said Grandma, and I spent it at Grandfather

Hollins. He was a minister, you know. We used to have very pleasant Sunday evenings, talking over the sermon and reciting the catechism. There wasn't any Sunday school in those days, not in our part of the country. One night we had the story of Jesus washing the disciples' feet. Cousin Mercy said she didn't see how he could do it, to think of his washing Judas's feet too. She thought it was wonderful. I said it was wonderful, but I could see how he could do it, and in a sense like to do it, that it showed how truly noble he was, and that I should like a chance to treat an enemy kindly because I thought it would be a splendid thing to do.

But I added, rather mournfully, that I did not suppose I should ever have an enemy. Grandfather did not make much reply, he only smiled on me, a curious sort of smile, and repeated this third verse of yours. If ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them? Then what did Cousin Stephen do, but repeat, with his eyes fixed on me, this next verse. Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall.

I felt my cheeks grow red. I wished I could have a chance to show Steeney how truly noble I was, for I saw he didn't believe it. The very next week something happened which made me think of those two verses again. I went to the little village school while I was at Grandfathers, and Priscilla Howe, went too. Priscilla was a bound girl whom my grandfather was bringing up. Bound! exclaimed little Sarah in startled tone. Grandma had to stop and explain to her that meant serving. Then she continued her story. I didn't like Priscilla very well. I hardly knew why. She was a still, cold little thing, a trifle sullen perhaps, at least I thought so, and I didn't have much to do with her. On Wednesday afternoons, we had an exercise in school which I always liked.

The afternoon before, the teacher would read to us a certain article, generally a description of something, a great meeting maybe, or a fire or a storm. We were to take what notes we pleased while the reading was going on. Then the next day, we were to bring in our written account of that same thing, using as few words and as short ones as we could to get in all the facts. And the scholar who brought in the best paper, with the fewest mistakes in spelling and punctuation, wore home the medal for composition. Now, I had a good memory, and it seemed to come natural to me to write out things, so I liked this exercise. But poor Priscilla hated it. She could not remember half a dozen things in the article and couldn't express them. Tuesday evening, grandfather let me sit in his study

while I wrote out my exercise. The story was a very nice one, and I felt sure of getting the medal. The next morning, when I went to get ready for school, my exercise was nowhere to be found. I made a great noise about it, and everyone in the house helped me to look, but the exercise was gone. I tried to get time to write another, but I could not. I missed the medal, of course, and cried bitterly. The next day, I found the exercise. Where do you think? Where? asked all the Bertons at once, in tones of eager interest and sympathy. Down in the bottom of Priscilla's mending basket, all torn into tiny little bits less than half an inch square. You should have heard the murmur of indignation which ran through the audience then.

I can't tell you how I felt, said Grandma. I went down to the sitting room where the family were gathered, but I was too angry to trust my voice to tell the story. They were all busy, and I crept into a corner with my dark little face and kept still. My cousin, Mercy, was at the piano. I ought to tell you about that piano children. said Grandma, breaking her story. It was the only one in that part of the world. Pianos were scarcer in those days than they are now, and Merseys was a great curiosity. It had been sent to her by a rich uncle, who went away off to foreign parts and made a fortune. It would look very queer and old-fashioned to you, but it was a great wonder and delight to me. Mercy called me to come and sing a hymn, but

Dear me, I couldn't have sung if they had promised me a piano of my own for doing it. Just then, my Aunt Martha, who was grandfather's housekeeper, said, as she looked from the window, There comes Priscilla with three lighted candles in her hands. How often I have told that child not to carry three candles at once? Run, Ruthie, dear, and open the door for her. She will burn herself or set the house on fire. But Ruthie did not run. I sat as still as a stone. Ruth, said my grandfather, astonished, while my cousin Stephen laid aside his book and went toward the door. I can't open doors for her, I burst forth. Not if she burns herself up. She tore my exercise into little bits, and I hate her.

Children, don't you feel ashamed of your grandma? Was ever such a wicked and at the same time, silly, little burst of rage? It ended with a perfect flood of tears. Grandfather was a wise man, and felt that this was no time for explanations. But as I hurried from the room, I heard Cousin Stephen's mocking voice saying, Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall. It dried my tears in a minute, that verse did. All the Sunday evening talk and my boastful words came back to me, and I just hated myself as I sat in my own little room in the dark and went over the whole thing. How angry I had been with Priscilla, and yet, only three days before, I had wanted an enemy that I might show everybody how noble I was. After a while I cried again, but I don't think there was any anger in those tears. I did feel so ashamed and so disappointed in myself, to think that the Lord Jesus could wash the feet of Judas, and I could not open a door for a little girl who had torn my paper. I did want to be a good girl and follow my Savior's example,

and it seemed so dreadful to have failed. It was a very meek and miserable little girl who stole around to grandfather's side that evening in answer to his gentle call. In a low voice, and with a few tears dropping quietly, I told him the whole sad story. And I can seem to hear his voice yet, as he said sorrowfully after a few minutes, yes, poor little girl, you are learning how much easier it is to resolve than to do. If ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them, the Savior said. Mercy was at the piano again, touching the keys softly. She began to sing in a low voice. Arise, my soul, arise, shake off thy guilty fears. The bleeding sacrifice in my behalf appears. Before the throne my surety stands, my name is graven on his hands.

Yes, said my grandfather, as he placed his dear old hand on my head, little Ruth must try again. He knows all about it and will forgive her. It was because he knew she couldn't be gentle and forgiving and loving all alone, that he came down here and lived and died. I've never forgotten it, children, but I can tell you one thing. It was a long time before I did any more boasting. It was a long time before Cousin Stephen could see me without beginning, let him that thinketh and laughing a little. There was silence in the audience for a few minutes after Grandma's voice ceased. Then Ralph made his speech.

Well, I think Priscilla was a bad, wicked girl and not to have been punished. End of Chapter 10. Chapter 11 of Grandma's Miracles or Stories Told at 6 o'clock in the Evening by Pansy. The Slibrobox recording is in the podcast. public domain. Chapter 11. An Intercessor I am the vine, ye are the branches. He will guide you into all truth. He ever liveth to make intercession for them. The last verse is mine, said Marion, and I do hope the story is about it. I know one, said Grandma. I know it well. There is nothing which

happened to me in my girlhood that I remember much better. I was older than you, Marion, nearly 14. Yes, I'll tell you about it. You may as well know that your grandmother went astray sometimes, for all she was surrounded by the best and wisest friends a girl ever had. It will help you to remember how full of temptation the world is, and how weak we all are. I was spending a month at my Aunt Barbara's. like to be there. My aunt was a cold kind of woman who knew very little about girls, but I had to go, for mother and father were away. They promised if I would wait patiently at my Aunt Barbara's, they would take me with them to see the ocean. Mother was to go, and I might go with her and stay a whole month. I had read about the ocean, but had never had a glimpse of it, and I was just wild to go. Well, I got

through three weeks at Aunt Barbara's, and did not disgrace myself more than a dozen times in the course of a day. You see, children, your aunt was a good woman, but she wasn't a mother, nor a bit like one. It was just a lovely summer evening, with a great big moon climbing up through the trees. Aunt Barbara and her niece, Miss Pauline, and her niece's intended husband, Mr. Robert Van Horn, were out on the lawn, and I was fidgeting about, first in the garden and then in the parlor, wishing I could get a letter from mother, or could run home, or could do something that I wanted to, when down the carriage drive came the loveliest four-horse equipage I ever saw. Dick Wollett was driving, and a girl whom I liked ever so much, was in the carriage, and a boy who was really bright and handsome

and good-natured got out, and took off his hat politely to my aunt, and asked if I couldn't go with them for a drive. Oh, I tell you, if ever I was in a flutter in my life, it was then. I felt as though I must go. I had been brought up with horses, and could drive them as well as my brothers could, and Dick was a first-rate fellow, and the handsome one was his cousin, whom my uncle called a very well-intentioned youth. And I didn't see any reason why I shouldn't go and have a nice drive. But my aunt did. She said, no, indeed, she couldn't think of trusting my neck to those horses. It was a great responsibility to take care of other people's children. She was sure my father would not allow it. In vain, Dick told her they were his father's well-trained horses, all of them,

and he had driven them four in hand hundreds of times, and we would be back by nine o'clock without fail. They might as well have talked to a stone. Aunt Barbara never even smiled. She sat up straight, looked dignified, and said she could not think of such a thing, and they drove away. Well, children, I know you would never believe it of your old grandmother. It does seem as though I must have been kind of crazy that night. I never did such a thing before or since, but I ran away and went on that ride. The audience exclaimed over this in wide-eyed astonishment. Yes, said Grandmother, I did. Now that's a solemn fact. I didn't really mean to do any such thing. When I slipped out at the back door with my hat in my hand, I just meant to go across the common over to Jane Hale.

Hancock's, and asked her if she didn't think it the meanest thing in the world that Aunt Barbara never let me go anywhere. Jane Hancock was a nice girl several years older than I, but I liked her, so did everybody. Now whom should I find when I got over there but the party in the four-horse carriage. They had stopped for Jane, but Jane's folks were all away, and she had charge of the house and couldn't go. When they saw me, they set up. up a shout. Oh, there's Ruthie after all. Ruthie, jump right in. This is splendid. If you'll believe it, and I hardly will myself, before I knew what I was about, in I got, and away we went. Jane thought it was all right. The rest thought that my aunt

had changed her mind, but I knew better. I know what happened next, said Ralph, wisdom on every line of his face. The horses got scared of a cow or something and ran away and pitched you all out and killed everybody. No, almost killed them. And all the horses were spoiled and the carriage knocked to pieces, and your father had to pay lots of money. Said Marion, Ralph, do hush and let Grandma finish. Said Grandma, no, my boy, you are wrong. Things don't always turn out that way, though they do sometimes. We had as prettier ride as I ever took, and I should have enjoyed every minute of it had Aunt Barbara let me go. But as it was, I began to be so ashamed of myself, I could hardly sit up straight and take my share in the talking.

They didn't know what to make of me, for I was a great talker in those days, but that night I kept still. I voted for home before any of the others were ready, and I made up my mind to walk straight up to Aunt Barbara and tell her where I had been, and that I was ashamed of myself, and would willingly take any punishment she thought best. I had it all planned out, but nothing happened as I planned it. I guess the party began to suspect that something was wrong, for Dick asked if he should leave me at Jane's. I flushed up at that and said, no, if you please, I am not stopping with Jane, but with my Aunt Barbara. So he drove to the door, but the one who came out and held up his arms to take me down from my

high seat was my own father. Think of that, children. I thought I would have been glad if he had dropped me down under the horse's feet or anywhere. He and mother had come a week earlier than they had been expected, and the first thing Aunt Barbara did was to send across to Jane's for me. I was always there when I couldn't be found at home, and of course, Jane told them I had gone on the ride, and there it was. I apologized humbly enough to my aunt, but she thought it was because my father said I must, and he did not know, of course, how fully I had made up my mind to do it before I knew he was there. It was all miserable. Aunt Barbara was as stiff as an icicle, which was certainly no wonder. She said she hoped Father would give me a severe enough punishment

to keep me from going to ruin. But the way she said it made me feel as though she thought going to ruin would be the best thing I could do. But I tell you, I thought my punishment was severe enough when Father told me he had decided that I could not be trusted to go with my mother to the seaside. I might take a fancy to run away and give her. trouble. I was to go home with him, and my sister Nanny was to go in my place. I cried all night. I was so homesick for mother, and Nanny had been with her all summer, and I wanted to see the ocean, and I was so ashamed to have to go home after I had told all my friends I was going to go to the seashore. It was a miserable night. The next morning, early, father called me to

to his room. Mother wasn't up yet, and Sister Nanny sat on the side of her bed, and father stood before them. He turned, as I came in with my eyes very red, and said he, Daughter, here's an intercessor for you, and she is waxing so eloquent she has almost succeeded. She wants us, for her sake, to forgive you, and let you go with your mother, and take her home with me to keep house. What do you, You say. I looked at Nanny and smiled, a weak kind of a smile, and then I burst into tears. I never will, I sobbed. I have been a bad, wicked girl, but I won't be selfish. Nanny shall go to the ocean, and I will go home. But Nanny had her way, just as she nearly always had, and a sweet, unselfish way it always was. I remember just how sort of

half frightened I was to think that father would take back his word when it was once passed, for he was a very strict man. Some people called him stern. One day, I asked him how it was that he came to let me go after all. I can seem to see the smile on his face now, as he said. I could not say no to the intercessor, Ruthie, and daughter, we are always to remember there is one to whom the heavenly father never says no, and he ever liveth to make intercession for us. Do you wonder that I remember the verse? Grandma, said Marion, after a thoughtful pause, That was the dear Aunt Nanny who died before I was born, wasn't it?

Yes, said Grandma, with a gentle little sigh, years and years before. End of Chapter 11. Chapter 12 of Grandma's Miracles or Stories Told at 6 o'clock in the Evening by Pansy. The Sliberovacs recording is in the public domain. Chapter 12. Fallen asleep. The Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. I find in him no fault at all. Then delivered he him, therefore, unto them to be crucified. It is finished. The Lord is risen indeed and hath appeared to Simon. It was six o'clock and after, but the little Burtains were not in Grandma's room.

Instead, they were wandering drearily through the quiet halls, uncertain what to do with their desolate little selves. No story for them tonight. It was not that they had forgotten to select their verse. It was little Sarah's turn, and she had chosen the one so easy. to learn, it is finished. The others had agreed that they were glad for little Sarah's choice, because they did not see how Grandma could make a story about it. But they knew she could, for Grandma never failed on a Bible verse. Besides, they had shown her their choice, and she had promised to be ready. Then what was the trouble? Why simply this. Grandma had gone away.

This was in itself something very strange to the Burton children. During all the years which they could remember, Grandma had never been away from home after the gas was lighted. Whoever might come or go, whatever changes occurred in their young lives, they were sure of Grandma safe in her own room. Now they looked sorrowfully at one another and could not seem to believe it possible that she was gone. Then, too, All the circumstances of her going had been so strange. On Sundays, when she went to church, the carriage always waited at the door until she and grandpa came downstairs, and he helped her in and took his seat beside her. When, on rare occasions, she went into town to spend the morning with Aunt Alice, there was always a little bustle in the house of getting her ready. Mama packed a bag with her cap and her other spectacles and her knitting, and went, at Grandma's direction, to such a drawer and such a shelf for packages ready to be taken to Aunt Alice's children. And when she was quite ready, they all trooped down to the carriage to see her off. If the weather was chilly, Anne followed with an extra wrap for her feet, or if it was warm with a palm-leaf fan, and always Grandpa sat beside her and arranged the cushion at her back, and Papa, as he held open the carriage door to say goodbye, would add,

Now, Mother, John will come for you not later than three, don't you worry. But with this going away, there had been no such careful and yet cheerful preparations. No bag had been packed. It hung at this moment on its hook in Grandma's clothes press. No carriage had waited. Nothing had been said about going away. They had been sitting in the deepening twilight in Grandma's room, these children and Mama.

Grandpa had been reading aloud a little bit about an old hymn, and Grandma had said, They used to sing that a great deal when I was a girl. They have left out one verse that I used to like. It was about spring. I always think of it these October days when, winter is near i never did quite like winter and i just enjoy thinking of a country where it can't come and then grandma had lifted up her sweet old voice and sung their everlasting spring abides and never withering flowers death like a narrow sea divides that heavenly land from ours Grandma's voice was low, but very sweet. The children loved to hear her sing. They thought their

mother liked it too, and they were hushed and a trifle startled as they looked over at her in the dim light and saw that she was brushing away tears from her face. This sight kept them still for a little, and the twilight deepened. Grandma leaned back in her chair, and Grandpa rested his chin on his hand and seemed lost in thought. Presently, Mama said, Mother, would you like to have the gas lighted now, or do you want to sit in the dark a while longer? But Grandma made no answer, and Grandpa, after a moment, arose and bent over her in a startled way, and the children were frightened when they heard his voice and frightened more still at his words. Oh, Helen, she is gone.

Gone! What could Grandpa mean? When she sat in her armchair and they could see in the fast-fading light a smile on her face. There had been great confusion after that, hurrying up and down stairs, slamming of doors, ringing of bells. But none of these things disturbed Grandma. It was true, as Grandpa had said. She was gone. Little Sarah did not understand it. Grandma was lying on a couch in her room, her beautiful satin hair combed smoothly, her beautiful hands folded, and a flower between her fingers. But she slept and slept all day. The children tried to explain it to Little Sarah, but it seemed so sad and so mysterious even to them that they did not succeed well. And now, as the twilight fell again, they felt so utterly alone without Grandma that they could not keep back their tears as they went on tiptoe past her closed door.

It opened suddenly, and Grandpa came out. Marion noticed that he stooped as he walked, and he seemed a great deal older than he ever had before. Little Sarah's tear-stained face seemed to stop him, and he stooped and took her by the hand. "'Poor children,' he said. "'You are lonesome, too.' Marion tried to hush little Sarah, lest she should deepen Grandpa's sorrow, but the little girl sobbed outright. "'We want our story. It is the time for it.

She said she would, and she always did, and I can't wake her up!' Grandpaw's lip quivered, but he kept close hold of the little hand and led the way. Come with Grandpaw, all of you, he said, and they went to the study. A cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and Grandpa's armchair was near it. He sat down, took Little Sarah in his arms, and questioned about the story. Yes, he said with trembling lip, that is true, it is finished. What is Grandpa? Little Sarah was the only one who could talk.

"'Grandpa, I want the story about it.' "'I'll try to tell it,' said Grandpa. "'This is the story, little Sarah. "'Grandma has finished all the tears. "'She will never cry again. "'She has finished all the trouble. "'She will never have any more. "'She has finished all the sickness.

"'She will never have another ache nor pain. "'She has even finished the dying.' "'And he tried to keep his wife. voice steady, death can never touch her again. She has gone up to live with God, whom she loved, and to wait and watch for us all. Why, then, we ought to be happy, exclaimed little Sarah, and her voice was very bright. I love Grandma enough to be happy if she is glad, don't you? A faint smile trembled for a moment on Grandpa's lips, as he said, Grandpa will try Sarah, he will try hard. He has only a little while to wait before his story, too, will be finished.

End of Chapter 12. End of Grandma's Miracles, or Stories Told at Six o'clock in the Evening, by Pansy. Thanks for listening.