Chapter 2

In Which I Share My Woe with My Best Friend, Jemma

August 3, 1859

Dear Jemma,

By the time you read this, I will be gone from these parts. As I write, I have packed my bag and am sitting in the tree out front of Right Reverend Abernathy’s door. You might recall him, or if you’re smart, you might not want to. He is the preacher who runs the Chemung County Home for Orphans and Pathetic Souls. I believe that’s the name of this place, though I might not have it exactly right. It’s where I wound up living these past months.

I am sorry to break the news to you, but my dear daddy, Cornelius Jeremiah Warne, has died. This might come as a shock to your mama and papa, since your family was friends with us Warnes for so long. That is, before you had to move so far away from us. Your papa, so thick and strong like a maple tree, he never made a fuss about helping my daddy split logs or round up cattle when they strayed. I recall our fathers were good friends because of it. But now my daddy, Cornelius J. Warne, is splitting logs with the angels.

I hope my letter does not cause anyone to shed tears. I believe I have done enough of that for the whole town, what with Daddy’s dying coming so soon after my brother Zeke’s funeral last Christmas. And the others, but I’ve told you about them already.

There is no sound like the one an empty house makes. You know the lonesome call of the whip-poor-will, I am sure. And I imagine that plenty of times you have sat and listened to the wind rustle leaves at night. But nothing reminds a body of how alone they are in the world than footsteps in an empty house. At first I didn’t mind when the Right Reverend showed up and took me to the Home for Orphans down here in town. I was just happy not to be haunting that old house like a teary-eyed ghost.

But I will not be staying in this orphan asylum another day, and for that I am eternally grateful. Did I already mention there was not even a bed for me to sleep on with all these hungry children packed in here? That might take a whole seperat editional nother letter to describe. Let me just say the Right Reverend found me a long-lost Warne kin who lives in Chicago. I do not recall her well, since she left some years back.

But family is family, and I’ll stick with her like a tick on a fat dog.

Very truly your friend,

Cornie