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“ [144] not carry her, the golden coach would not hold her, her illusory grandeur was at an end. Our cause of truth and justice I compared to the Princess in her enchanted sleep, who lies spellbound until the true champion comes to rescue her, and the two go forth together, to return to sleep and diversion, oh, never more.”

This is the note throughout the Journal; the record of work, the prayer for strength. Yet the friskiness was there; no one but herself would have had less of it.

She had already entered the happy estate of grandmotherhood, and enjoyed it to the full. New songs must be made for the little new people, new games invented. We see her taking a grandchild's hands in hers, and improvising thus:--

We have two hands,
To buckle bands!
We have ten fingers,
To make clotheswringers!
We have two thumbs,
To pick up crumbs!
We have two heels,
To bob for eels!
We have ten toes,
To match our nose!

If the child be tired or fretful, “Hush!” says the grandmother. “Be good, and I will play you the ‘Canarybird's Funeral.’ ” Off they go to the piano, and the “Canarybird's funeral” is improvised, and must be played over and over, for this and succeeding grandchildren. For them, too, she composed the musical drama of “Flibbertigibbet,” which she was to play and recite for so many happy children, and grown folks

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