Meantime the children had gone on their way, Whittier drawing his sister upon the Flyaway, bending all his energies to the task, for the sledding was not very good, so it happened that Lucy was the first to spy a strange sight for that part of the country. “Look, Whitty! what is that coming?” exclaimed his sister. Then Whittier stopped, and Lucy in her excitement jumped off the sled and stood beside him, half-frightened. “Why, that must be one of them things they call a bicycle!” said the boy; “I’ve read a lot about them, and Tom Green saw one in Galway when he was over there staying with his uncle. I guess this is the first one ever got around this way. My! how he skims along. But I wish he would stop, so we could see the machine better.” As if divining the boy’s wish, the bicyclist came to a stand-still and dismounted as he reached the place where the children waited. “Halloo, my boy! How’ll you swap? I think I’d like to go coasting this morning; those hills over there look as though they might give a chance for some sport.” “Say,” continued the stranger without giving Whittier a chance to speak, “do you s’pose a fellow could get a breakfast anywhere around here?” “I don’t know,” replied Whittier slowly. “I guess, though, that grandma would give you some. I’ve heard her say she never could find it in her heart to turn a tramp away because maybe uncle John might be wanting something to eat and she would want somebody to give him a meal.” The stranger stooped down and seemed to be brushing the snow off the wheel, and when he spoke it was in a very quiet tone: “Where does grandma live, and what is her name?” “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?”