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1. THERE is an old kitchen somewhere in the past, and an old-fashioned fire-place therein, with its smooth old jambs of stone, smooth with many knives that have been sharpened there smooth with many little fngers that have clung there. There are andirons with rings in the top, wherein many temples of flame have been builded with spires and turrets of crimson. There is a broad, worn hearth broad enough for three generations to cluster on, worn by feet that have been torn and bleeding by the way, or been made "beautiful," and walked upon foors of tesselated gold. There are tongs in the corner, wherewith we grasped a coal, and "blowing for a little life," lighted our first candle there is a shovel, wherewith were drawn forth the glowing embers, in which we saw our first fancies and dreamed our frst dreams the shovel with which we stirred the logs, until the sparks rushed up the chimney as if a forge was in blast below, and wished we had so many lambs, or so many marbles, or so many somethings that we coveted and so it was that we wished our frst wishes.
2. There is a chair a low, rush-bottomed chair there is a little wheel in the corner, a big wheel in the garret, a loom in the chamber. There are chestsful of linen and yarn, and quilts of rare patterns and samplers in frames.
3. And every where and always, is the dear old wrinkled face of her whose firm, elastic step mocks the feeble saunter of her children's children, the old-fashioned grandmother of twenty years ago she, the very Providence of the old homestead she who loved us all and said she wished there were more of us to love, and took all the school in the hollow for grandchildren besides. A great expansive heart was hers, beneath the woolen gown, or that more stately bombazine, or that sole heir-loom of silken texture.
4. We can see her to-day, those mild, blue eyes, with more of beauty in them than time could touch, or death could do more than hide those eyes that held both smiles and tears within the faintest call of every one of us, and soft reproof that seemed not passion but regret. A white tress has escaped from beneath her snowy cap she lengthened the tether of a vine that was straying over a window, as she came in, and plucked a four-leaved clover for Ellen. She sits down by the little wheel a tress is running through her fingers from the distaff's disheveled head, when a small voice cries, "Grandma," from the old red cradle, and "Grandma," Tommy shouts from the top of the stairs. Gently she lets go the thread, for her patience is almost as beautiful as her charity, and she touches the little red bark a moment, till the young voyager is in a dream again, and then directs Tommy's unavailing attempts to harness the cat.
5. The tick of the clock runs fast and low, and she opens the mysterious door and proceeds to wind it up. We are all on tip-toe, and we beg in a breath, to be lifted up, one by one, and look in, the hundreth time, upon the tin cases of the weights, and the poor lonely pendulum, which goes to and fro by its little dim windows and our petitions are all granted, and we are all lifted up, and we all touch with the fnger the wonderful weights, and the music of the wheel is resumed.
6. Was Mary to be married, or Jane to be wrapped in a shroud? So meekly did she fold the white hands of the one upon her still bosom, that there seemed to be a prayer in them there and so sweetly did she wreath the white rose in the hair of the other, that one would not have wondered had more roses budded for company. How she stood between us and apprehended harm how the rudest of us softened beneath the gentle pressure of her faded and tremulous hand! From her capacious pocket, that hand was ever withdrawn closed, only to be opened in our own with the nuts she had gathered, with the cherries she had plucked, the little egg she had found, the "turn-over" she had baked, the trinkets she had purchased for us as the products of her spinning, the blessings she had stored for us, the offspring of her heart.
7. What treasures of story fell from those old lips of good fairies and evil of the old times when she was a girl but we wonder if ever she was a girl but then she couldn’t be handsomer or dearer she was ever little. And then, when we begged her to sing. "Sing us one of the old songs you used to sing for mother, grandma.”
8. "Children, I can’t sing," she always said, and mother used always to lay her knitting softly down, and the kitten stopped playing with the yarn on the foor, and the clock ticked lower in the corner, and the fre died down to a glow, like an old heart that is neither chilled nor dead, and grandmother sang. To be sure, it would not do for the parlor and concert room now-a-days but then it was the old kitchen and the old-fashioned grandmother, and the old ballad, in the dear old times, and we can hardly see to write for the memory of them, though it is a hand's breadth to the sunset.
9. Well, she sang. Her voice was feeble and wavering, like a fountain just ready to fail but then how sweet toned it was, and it became deeper and stronger but it could not grow sweeter. What "joy of grief" it was to sit there around the fire, all of us, excepting Jane, and her we thought we saw when the door was opened a moment by the wind but then we were not afraid, for was not it her old smile she wore? to sit there around the fre, and weep over the woes of the babes in the wood, who laid down side by side in the great solemn shadows! and how strangely glad we felt, when the robin redbreast covered them with leaves, and last of all, when the angel took them out of night into day everlasting!
10. We may think what we will of it now, but the song and the story, heard around the kitchen fire, have colored the thoughts and the lives of most of us, have given the germs of whatever poetry blesses our hearts, whatever of memory blooms in our yesterdays. Attribute whatever we may to the school and the schoolmaster, the rays which make that little day we call life, radiate from the God-swept circle of the hearthstone.
11. Then she sings an old lullaby, the song of her mother, her mother sang it to her but she does not sing it through, and falters ere it is done. She rests her head upon her hands, and is silent in the old kitchen. Something glitters down between her fngers in the frelight, and it looks like rain in the soft sunshine. The old grandmother is thinking when she first heard the song, and of the voices that sang it, when, a light-haired and light-hearted girl, she hung round that mother's chair, nor saw the shadows of the years to come. Oh! the days that are no more! What words unsay, what deeds undo, to set back just this once the ancient clock of time?
12. So our little hands were forever clinging to her garments, and staying her as if from dying for long ago she had done living for herself, and lived alone in us.
13. How she used to welcome us when we were grown, and came back once more to the homestead! We thought we were men and women, but we were children there the old-fashioned grandmother was blind in her eyes, but she saw with her heart, as she always did. We threw out long shadows through the open door, and she felt them as they fell over her form, and she looked dimly up, and she said: "Edward I know, and Lucy's voice I can hear, but whose is that other? It must be Jane's," for she had almost forgotten the folded hands. "Oh, no! not Jane's, for she, let me see, she is waiting for me, isn’t she?”and the old grandmother wandered and wept.
14. "It is another daughter, grandmother, that Edward has brought," says some one, "for your blessing.” "Has she blue eyes, my son? Put her hands in mine, for she is my late-born, the child of my old age. Shall I sing you a song, children?”and she is idly fumbling for a toy, a welcome gift for the children that have come again.
15. One of us, men as we thought we were, is weeping she hears the half-suppressed sobs, and she says, as she extends her feeble hand, "Here, my poor child, rest upon your grandmother's shoulder she will protect you from all harm.” "Come, my children, sit around the fire again. Shall I sing you a song or tell you a story? Stir the fre, for it is cold the nights are growing colder.”
16. The clock in the corner struck nine, the bedtime of those old days. The song of life was indeed sung, the story told. It was bedtime at last. Good-night to thee, grandmother. The old-fashioned grandmother is no more, and we shall miss her forever. The old kitchen wants a presence today, and the rush-bottomed chair is tenantless. But we will set up a tablet in the midst of the heart, and write on it only this:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF THE
GOOD OLD-FASHIONED GRANDMOTHER.
GOD BLESS HER FOREVER.
1. 这里有过通往某处的老厨房，老式的壁炉，古老的磨得光光的石头侧墙，许多把刀都是在这里被磨锋利的，许多双小手曾经扶着它蹒跚学步。柴架的顶端有环，上面建有火焰庙，火焰庙上有深红色的塔尖和角楼。宽阔而破损的炉床足够一家三代围坐在一起。由于被人们常年脚踏的缘故，炉床有些磨损，时间久了，有些地方也裂开了，褪了色，后来又被美化了，人们可以走在镶嵌花样的有金饰的地板上了。角落里有火钳，我们用它夹起一块煤，吹燃，点起我们的第一支蜡烛。那里有铲子，我们用它铲起燃烧未尽的余火，在火中看到了我们的第一个幻境，做了我们的第一个梦。我们用铲子拨拉着木柴，直到火星蹿出了烟囱，就像是下面有炼炉似的，火星四溅。我们幻想着有那么多的羊羔，那么多的玻璃球弹珠……那么多我们渴望得到的东西——这就是我们盼望实现的第一个愿望。
2. 那里摆着一把椅子，矮矮的，用灯芯草做底。墙脚边放着一只小轮子，阁楼上放着一只大的。卧室里有一台织布机，还有几箱子的亚麻布、纺线和图案罕见的提花床单布，架子上还摆着刺绣样品。
3. 这里，到处可以看到二十年前我们那因循守旧的老祖母的身影，她那布满皱纹的慈祥的面容，她模仿孙子们蹒跚学步时的那坚定而灵活的步履已经成为永恒。她，就是老农庄里的上帝。她爱我们这些孩子，个个都爱，她说她还希望有更多的孩子可以去爱，她认为学校对她身边的这些孙子们来说是空洞无用的。毛纺长袍（或更正式的丝绸衣衫）之下，或在那台她作为唯一的继承人继承下来的、能织出丝质手感的布匹的织布机旁，有她那伟大而宽广的胸怀。
4. 今天，超越了时间与死亡的限制，我们依然能够看见她那双温柔的、湛蓝色的美丽的眼睛，在我们模糊的记忆中，仍然能够感觉到那目光中蕴含的微笑与泪水，那温柔的指责，不是盛怒，而是惋惜。一绺银白色的头发从她那雪白色的帽子里溜了出来。一棵葡萄树在窗外生长蔓延，她加长了那条系着葡萄树的绳子。当她进来的时候，为艾伦摘下了一片长有四片叶子的三叶草。她在那个小轮子边坐了下来。一绺头发从忙着做针线活的老祖母那蓬乱的头发中散落，垂在指尖。这时，从那红色的旧摇篮里传来小孩的哭声：“奶奶”“奶奶……”汤米在楼上喊。她轻轻地放下针线活，她的耐心和她的慈爱一样让人感动，她抚摸着这个大呼小叫的小家伙，直到小航海家又进入了梦乡，然后才来收拾汤米试图给猫套上马具而留下的一片狼藉。
5. 滴答作响的钟表急急忙忙地向前走着，一圈又一圈。她打开那扇神秘的门，要给钟表上紧发条。我们都踮着脚尖，一口气地请求被举起，第一百次地一个接一个地去看那里面锡制的秤砣——那个孤独可怜的钟摆，从那小窗可以隐隐约约地看到它在里面来回地走动。我们所有的祈求都能够得到满足。被举起来的时候我们用手指去触摸那神奇的秤砣，听齿轮重新奏响音乐。
6. 玛丽要嫁人了吗？简将要穿上她的寿衣了吗？她温柔地将那苍白的双手放在胸前，似乎在祈祷。她亲切地将那白玫瑰编成的花环戴在别人头上，人们并不会吃惊那花环会长出更多的玫瑰花蕾来。对于我们造成的伤害，她能设身处地地去理解，我们当中最粗鲁的孩子会在她那柔弱颤抖的双手中变得温顺。她的双手老是空空地从她那宽大的衣服口袋里抽出来，只有当我们的小手伸进去的时候，才会掏出她采的坚果、摘的樱桃、她找到的小鸟蛋、烤的大馅饼、她用纺纱赚来的钱为我们买的小玩意儿，还有她为我们的祈福，我们这些子孙们可是她的小心肝儿啊！
7. 从那老迈的唇齿间，我们听到了关于好仙子和坏仙子的寓意深刻的故事，听到了过去当她还是个小姑娘时的故事，不过我们却怀疑她是否曾经是个小姑娘，可是，她曾经漂亮得不能再漂亮，可爱得不能再可爱，的确，她和我们所有人都一样，曾经是个小孩。然后，我们就求她唱歌：“给我们唱个你过去给你的妈妈和祖母唱过的老歌吧。”
8. “孩子们，我不会唱歌。”她总是这么说，然后，妈妈总是会轻轻地放下针线活，在地上玩毛线的小猫咪也停了下来，在墙角的钟表也放低了滴答声，炉火熄灭了，余灰还散着热气，就如同一颗老去的心，既不会冻得簌簌发抖，也不会变得麻木不仁，老祖母开始唱了。的确，这在现在的客厅或音乐会上是不可能发生的，那可是在令人备感亲切的过去，是在老厨房里，有因循守旧的老祖母，还有那老歌谣。我们不懂得写过去的那些回忆，尽管它与日暮近在咫尺。
9. 她唱得非常好。起初，她的声音微弱，如同起伏的波浪，又像是将要下落的喷泉，音调是那么柔美。接着，声音变得深沉而有力，可是，那声音甜美极了。我们所有的人，除了简，都围坐在壁炉旁，忧伤地快乐着。我们想，当风把门吹开的那一刻，我们看到了她，可是我们一点也不害怕，因为她的脸上不是还带着她那昔日的笑容吗？围坐在壁炉旁，为那被停放在林子里的不幸婴儿而哭泣，他们被一个挨一个地放在了那庄严肃穆的阴暗之地。当红色胸脯的知更鸟用树叶将他们一个个遮盖起来，当天使带着他们穿过黑夜来到那永恒的白昼，我们感到异常开心！
10. 现在我们可以想象自己将魂归何处，可是，从厨房壁炉旁听来的歌声和故事给我们当中绝大多数人的生活和思想增添了光彩，启迪我们用诗歌来滋养心灵，昨天的故事在我们的记忆中开出了花朵。现在人们把我们拥有的一切能力都归因于学校和老师，可是我们把过去的那些最平凡﹑最琐碎的日子叫做生活。上帝为它而哭泣，那些昔日围坐在炉边的日子啊，在炉底的石头旁熠熠生辉。
11. 后来老祖母又唱了一首古老的摇篮曲，那是她妈妈的歌，她妈妈曾经把这首歌唱给她听，可是这回她没有把歌唱完，声音便开始颤抖，她停了下来。在那间老厨房里，老祖母双手支着头静静地坐在那里，在炉火的映照下，有什么东西在她的指尖闪烁，就像是柔和的阳光下的一滴雨。老祖母想起了她第一次听到这首歌时的情形，想起了她妈妈的歌声，那时她还是一个无忧无虑的黄毛小丫头，整天围着妈妈的椅子玩耍，想不到未来日子的艰辛。啊！过去的日子不在了！还有多少话没有说，还有多少事没有做，可以把这古老的时钟调回到过去吗？
12. 所以，我们的小手老是拽着祖母的衣裙，就像是要把她留下来，不让她老去。然而很久以前她就离开了我们，只活在了我们的心中。
13. 祖母看着我们成长。她要是能够再回到家里来，那该多好啊！我们认为自己早已是成人了，可是在那里，我们还是孩子。因循守旧的老祖母眼睛看不见了，可是她的心能看得见，她总是这样。我们在敞开的门中投下长长的影子，当影子投在她身上时，祖母就能感觉到，她抬起头，双眼模糊，说：“是爱德华，我知道，我能听出还有露西的声音，可是还有一个声音是谁的？肯定是简。”因为她几乎已经忘记了那早已合上的双手，“哦，不，不会是简，因为她……让我看看，她一定在等我呢，是吧？”老祖母神神恍惚，她哭了。
14. “那是另一个女儿，祖母，爱德华带来的，”有人说，“托您的福！”“孩子，她长的是蓝色的眼睛，是吗？让我摸摸她的手。她是我老了以后最后出生的孩子。孩子们，我可以给你们唱首歌吗？”她一边说，一边四下里摸着找一只玩具，那是给刚刚出生的孩子的玩具。
15. 我们当中的一个男人（我们认为自己是）在哭泣，祖母听到了那强忍着的啜泣声，她伸出了那软弱无力的手说：“到这儿来，我可怜的孩子，靠在祖母的肩上，她会保护你不受任何伤害。”“来，我的孩子们，回到壁炉旁坐下吧。我是给你们唱首歌呢，还是讲个故事呢？去拨拉拨拉炉火，屋里冷了，晚上越来越冷了。”
16. 角落里的钟敲了九下，在过去，这就是上床睡觉的时间了。生命之歌唱完了，故事也讲完了，最后到了上床睡觉的时间。对您说声“晚安”，祖母！因循守旧的老祖母不在了，我们会永远记着她。今天，那个老厨房就是想要看到有什么人出现，也不会再有人坐到那把灯芯草做底的椅子上了。但是，我们会在心中铺开一张桌子，在上面写上：
神圣纪念我们因循守旧的好祖母！
上帝永远保佑您！