What My Grandpa Said About The Pope: A Story
My grandpa is a nice old gentleman, with gray hair, and gold spectacles, and very fond of his little grandson Billy—that’s me. Grandpa and I often go out to walk together, that is, on fine days, because on cloudy days he never goes out of the house, but stays at home to keep “comfortable with the gout”, as he says.
One day we strolled along the edge of the woods and into the park, and after walking about for a while we sat down on a nice sunny bench. Grandpa took out a newspaper to read. As his eye glanced down the columns, he suddenly gave a grunt and hit the ground very sharply with his cane.
“Got the gout, Grandpa?” I asked.
“No, my dear, it’s nothing but the old Pope again.”
“Who is he, Grandpa?” I enquired.
“I am sorry to say he’s a bad man, and always has been my dear,” replied Grandpa, looking at me over his spectacles.”
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