“Her name is Grandma Kirke, and she lives over there in the white house you see by the red barn.”
“And is there a Grandpa Kirke?”
“Of course! we’d have to have a grandpa or we couldn’t get along, could we?” said Lucy, startled out of her shyness at the thought that there could be a house without a grandpa.
“There is just Grandpa and Grandma Kirke and us,” said Whittier; “we used to have an uncle John, though Lucy Larcom and I came here after he went away. He has been gone five years, but you better not say anything about him if you go there, because it always makes grandma cry.”
“And does grandpa cry?”
“No; he only looks sober, but I guess he feels awful bad about uncle John, for he says it was rum that made him go off, and grandpa hates rum like poison. He won’t have even cider in the house, and he always votes against rum too.”
“And don’t grandma make currant wine and keep it in the cellar for Thanksgiving and Christmas?” asked the stranger.
“My! no! grandma hates everything that has alcohol in it. She wouldn’t have it anywhere around; but she will give you a cup of coffee, I guess.”
“And you think she would be glad to see John?”