moment … there. Well, come now, girls, do not lollygag,” Leah says. She briskly steers her sisters through the thickening crowd, round ash barrels, carriage stoops, mounds of horse droppings. The girls cannot cease gawking. Rochester has changed since the girls were last here only nine months ago. Has grown presto-quick. Become even more the hub of commerce, thanks to the glorious canal. The wonders of American invention shall never cease, Leah decides.
“Honestly, if you walk any slower you will be going backwards,” Leah says, but relents and slows her pace at Maggie’s and Katie’s beseechments. Everything is a marvel to her sisters: the gutted geese hanging in the butcher’s window, the veiled bonnets at the milliner’s, the fruit and vegetables heaped in stalls, even the proprietors themselves, who call out prices in pennies, shillings and reales. The girls now make a game of find-the-symbol. They count the helixed barber poles of the barbers, the trio of golden balls that mark thepawnshops, the show-globes of the apothecaries, the black lettered signs of the mourning supply shops. Six. Eight. Three. Four. What the girls like best, however, are the carved Indian figures of the tobacconists. They find five in all. “They are only facsimiles,” Leah warns. “A true Indian may look nothing alike. They may, indeed, look much like anyone.”
Leah leads her sisters on through the Four Corners with its banks and fine stores. Advertising banners hang hither and yon. A boy herds two cows past a bright-painted buggy. And on the centre rotunda a four-piece band plays, torching the air above with colours. Leah is the only one who sees these colours, of course. She thrills at their wondrous display, sighs in disappointment when the colours swiftly fade then vanish. Talents of perception are for the young, she thinks, and I am no longer.
Maggie is also watching the band. “And Calvin? Will we get to see Calvin? Please?”
“Why do you ask? Ah … the band.” Calvin, their ersatz brother, plays the fife in a military band. “Perhaps I shall write him. But first let us see how loud this ghost plays, shall we? And … Katherina!” Leah cries, and slaps at Katie’s hand. “Do not point, dear. Honestly, there is nothing more rude, nor more noticeable than pointing.”
“But look-it, Leah,” Katie says. The coloured man plays a limber-jack, the wooden man’s clackety limbs making the very music to which he dances. “Miss Nettie could never ever do that,” Katie declares. She gave the doll to their niece Ella before they left. “I’m too old for dollies now” was what Katie said. “So you take care of our Ella, Miss Nettie, and don’t go on with your rambly ole talk.”
“Leah,” Katie whispers now. “They do talk. See?”
Sure enough, the limber-jack is commenting on the fine June day. Next he sings, clear as a bell, his wooden mouth working open and shut. The coloured man’s mouth, however, is set firm, and he looks at the limber-jack, there on his knee, with as much astonishment as anyone.
“How very clever,” Leah says, and drops a coin in the pot at the man’s feet. “Now where is your sister? Margaretta!”
Ah, there she is, standing agog afore a stall that is chock with almanacs and periodicals, books and newsprint. “Margaretta, you cannot leave my side without asking. You might be snatched off. Men, my dear, are not to be trusted.”
The newspaper proprietor, as if in agreement, spits tobacco within an inch of Leah’s hem, “Just the once, Leah?” Maggie implores. “Please?” She points to a dime novel, to the image of its whey-faced, hand-wringing heroine. “We’ll share it, won’t we, Kat?”
Katie shrugs, twists at her hair. Leah agrees after some calculation of her money. “But, once again, do not point, my dears, nor twist your hair. It is bad form. Walk briskly, double-time now, else you shall not get anywhere in this life.”
Behind them the vendor calls out,
“Honestly, if you walk any slower you will be going backwards,” Leah says, but relents and slows her pace at Maggie’s and Katie’s beseechments. Everything is a marvel to her sisters: the gutted geese hanging in the butcher’s window, the veiled bonnets at the milliner’s, the fruit and vegetables heaped in stalls, even the proprietors themselves, who call out prices in pennies, shillings and reales. The girls now make a game of find-the-symbol. They count the helixed barber poles of the barbers, the trio of golden balls that mark thepawnshops, the show-globes of the apothecaries, the black lettered signs of the mourning supply shops. Six. Eight. Three. Four. What the girls like best, however, are the carved Indian figures of the tobacconists. They find five in all. “They are only facsimiles,” Leah warns. “A true Indian may look nothing alike. They may, indeed, look much like anyone.”
Leah leads her sisters on through the Four Corners with its banks and fine stores. Advertising banners hang hither and yon. A boy herds two cows past a bright-painted buggy. And on the centre rotunda a four-piece band plays, torching the air above with colours. Leah is the only one who sees these colours, of course. She thrills at their wondrous display, sighs in disappointment when the colours swiftly fade then vanish. Talents of perception are for the young, she thinks, and I am no longer.
Maggie is also watching the band. “And Calvin? Will we get to see Calvin? Please?”
“Why do you ask? Ah … the band.” Calvin, their ersatz brother, plays the fife in a military band. “Perhaps I shall write him. But first let us see how loud this ghost plays, shall we? And … Katherina!” Leah cries, and slaps at Katie’s hand. “Do not point, dear. Honestly, there is nothing more rude, nor more noticeable than pointing.”
“But look-it, Leah,” Katie says. The coloured man plays a limber-jack, the wooden man’s clackety limbs making the very music to which he dances. “Miss Nettie could never ever do that,” Katie declares. She gave the doll to their niece Ella before they left. “I’m too old for dollies now” was what Katie said. “So you take care of our Ella, Miss Nettie, and don’t go on with your rambly ole talk.”
“Leah,” Katie whispers now. “They do talk. See?”
Sure enough, the limber-jack is commenting on the fine June day. Next he sings, clear as a bell, his wooden mouth working open and shut. The coloured man’s mouth, however, is set firm, and he looks at the limber-jack, there on his knee, with as much astonishment as anyone.
“How very clever,” Leah says, and drops a coin in the pot at the man’s feet. “Now where is your sister? Margaretta!”
Ah, there she is, standing agog afore a stall that is chock with almanacs and periodicals, books and newsprint. “Margaretta, you cannot leave my side without asking. You might be snatched off. Men, my dear, are not to be trusted.”
The newspaper proprietor, as if in agreement, spits tobacco within an inch of Leah’s hem, “Just the once, Leah?” Maggie implores. “Please?” She points to a dime novel, to the image of its whey-faced, hand-wringing heroine. “We’ll share it, won’t we, Kat?”
Katie shrugs, twists at her hair. Leah agrees after some calculation of her money. “But, once again, do not point, my dears, nor twist your hair. It is bad form. Walk briskly, double-time now, else you shall not get anywhere in this life.”
Behind them the vendor calls out,
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