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By Root 1718 0

an abundance of hair—but Papa, Mr. Richard Aloysius Day, was small, almost tiny, and entirely bald. The top of his head rose only to my shoulder, and every chair that he habitually sat in had a high, hard cushion, upon which he perched like a bird, the better to stare at you, also like a bird. But he did not have a birdlike voice, but rather a lovely baritone, entirely the voice of another man, and in the parlor sat a large piano. In the course of my stay at Day’s End Plantation, Papa himself sat down at the piano perhaps three or four times and sang. As Lorna later said to me, "It do stand your hair on end to hear dat big voice comin’ out of dat little head, but he sing like some angel, sure ’nuf."

On my first night, however, I was as yet unaware of Papa’s talents, only taken aback by the figure he made in the dining room at supper, sitting up in his chair with his napkin tucked into his collar and his fork lifted to dart at his food. By contrast, Helen, who was very attentive to him, looked like another animal entirely, a sleek filly, perhaps, all limbs and grace. What sort of animal did I look like to them, with my wisps of hair and my big hands and my plain face? Nothing local, I am sure.

We ate rabbit that Malachi had shot, cooked with a considerable quantity of mustard. Papa’s fork popped little bits between his lips quickly, quickly, quickly, and his lips snapped shut over them. He cocked his shining head at me, ate a bit of bread, darted me a smile, let the wonderful baritone roll out. "Mrs. Bisket"—yes, I had taken Louisa’s name—"my beloved daughter tells me that you are a wanderer in our country, without connections or resources."

"Yes, sir, she speaks truly."

"And yet you comport yourself in a ladylike manner and speak with educated tones. I am told you carry books in your case. I am a reading man. After we have supped, I will show you my library."

After a long moment of silence, I ventured, "I came west and discovered that conditions were not as they had been represented. I met with some misadventures."

"You and your husband came west with no company or connections? Very enterprising."

I pondered how much to divulge. The Massachusetts Emigrant Aid Company was, perhaps, the most famous "company" in the west or anywhere else. And Helen had mentioned the books to him, though I didn’t know whether she’d named them. Finally, I thought the safest thing was to concede his assumptions. I said, "Yes. We had no company or connections out here."

"I offer my condolences on his death, my dear. The death of my own wife has been a permanent grief to me, and I have told my three daughters that I will never marry again."

This seemed as good a time as any to subside into silence. Papa’s manners and evident curiosity had a way of drawing me, so that it required positive resistance not to tell some story, either true or fabricated. But I was a little afraid that I would mix myself up if I spoke too voluminously, and there was this, as well—I didn’t want Papa to get into the habit of expecting me to be forthcoming. For one thing, I was his guest, not his daughter, and for another, a trickle now could easily turn into a stream later, and then into a cataract. It was better that I should retain as much mystery as possible with Papa. My sisters would have asserted that such a course would be easy for me, as they had considered me backward and unsociable all my life, but it was far more difficult not to lay myself out to be agreeable in this house of strangers than it had been at home. Papa’s every bright glance seemed to call up some response, some bit of intelligence. I ate industriously, as if I were famished, and soon I was exceedingly full.

"And so your husband had connections in the west?"

"Not really, no."

More rabbit.

"But surely he knew someone?"

"No; I would have to say no."

A forkful of greens.

"He didn’t come from a large family, then?"

"No, not especially."

A bite of bread.

"And yourself? You’ve left many behind?"

"I have sisters."

More rabbit.

"They’re all older."

A sip of well water.

"Much older."