"Aw, Gran'ma, don't make a feller tell what he's goin' to buy. I know
you got one - Look'n see! Please, Gran'ma!"

Slowly the wrinkled hand would fumble for that skirt-pocket which was
always so hard to locate - and from its depths there would come the old
worn leather wallet with a strap around it - and slowly, (gee! how
s-l-o-w-l-y), - after much fumbling, during which you were never sure
whether you were going to get it or not . . . the penny would come forth
and be placed (with seeming reluctance) in the grimy, dirty boy-hand.
And usually, just as you reached the door on your hurried way to the
nearest candy-shop, she would scare you almost stiff by calling you
back, and say:

Wait a minute, Willie, I found another one that I didn't know was in
here!"

And then you kissed her wrinkled, soft check and ran away thinking,
after all, grandmother was pretty good.

Good?

Can a woman stick to a man through sixty-odd years - and keep his linen
and his broadcloth - and bear him children - and make them into fine
wives and husbands - and take them back to her bosom when their mates
turn against them - and raise a bunch of riotous grandchildren - and
manage such a household as ours with never a complaint - get up at five
o'clock every morning and sit up till half-after nine o'clock every
night - busy all the time - and nurse her own and other folks' ailments
without a murmur - and submerge self completely in her constant doing
for others - can a frail woman so live for eighty-six years and be