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since his arrival. Minnie was off hiding in her room—she always vanished whenever we had visitors—and my three brothers who were still at home, while politely greeted, were given no further notice by our visitor. Colonel Wood seemed fascinated solely with me. His attention was different than what I usually encountered from the few strangers who happened through Middleborough; he did not lookas if he was about to ask me if fairies had forgotten to give me my wings (one of the many fanciful sentiments that strangers were inspired to utter when first making my acquaintance).
    Instead, I felt his gaze to be more calculated, more appraising, but for what purpose I could not begin to guess.
    As Mama and he attempted to sort out their relation—I never did figure it out and later wondered if there really was such a connection—he still managed to throw glances my way, as if he was sizing me up. Whenever I ventured to speak, he listened carefully, and I could sense first his approval and then his excitement as I displayed my usual intelligence in my typical forthright way.
    Finally, he admitted he had come here with a specific purpose in mind.
    “Have you all ever heard of a fellow named Barnum?”
    “Well, yes, Cousin, of course we read the newspaper. Do you think we’re so ill informed, just because we’re farmers?” Mama answered softly, chidingly; despite our humble abode and plain living, she was very conscious of her heritage as a descendent of one of the Mayflower Compact signers.
    “Of course not, of course not,” Colonel Wood replied hastily. “Forgive me, I’ve been so long in the West that I sometimes forget how civilized we are here in New England.”
    “What does that Barnum have to do with us?” my brother Benjamin asked, regarding Colonel Wood with barely concealed hostility.
    “Well, he’s had a great deal of success, you know. First with that Tom Thumb fellow, the one that visited England and had tea with the Queen and all. Then with Miss Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale.”
    At the mention of Tom Thumb, Mama and Papa exchanged glances, careful not to look my way.
    “Can’t say as I approve of that man,” Papa grumbled. “It seems wrong, somehow.”
    “Wrong? Why, both Jenny Lind and the little man are famous! Millionaires, they say! Living it up, meeting royalty—what’s wrong with that? Sounds like a mighty fine life to me!” Colonel Wood was unable to keep up his careful nonchalance; he was now leaning forward, his dark eyes snapping.
    “I’d wager it’s that Barnum who’s getting rich,” Papa retorted. “Showing people about like they’re
things
, not humans. Humbugging the public, like he did with that Joice Heth, claiming she was a hundred and sixty-one years old! George Washington’s nurse, he said she was! George Washington’s nurse, my eye. Anyone could tell she was just some old slave woman.”
    “Oh, but Papa—Miss Jenny Lind is not a thing! She’s an artist! And what was the humbug there?” I couldn’t help myself; I did not like to contradict my father, but on the subject of Jenny Lind, I could not keep quiet.
    I was just a child when Jenny Lind came to America, back in 1850. I never heard her sing; she never came anywhere near Middleborough. But I followed her every move in the newspaper, drinking in every detail of the Swedish Nightingale—what she wore, how she did her hair, what her favorite foods were. And, of course, how she sang: like an angel, the newspapers said. With a voice of such incomparable beauty it made grown men weep, particularly when she ended her concerts with her signature song, “Home Sweet Home.” There were Jenny Lind waltzes performed in her honor, Jenny Lind polkas, ballads, clothes, dolls, figurines. I had a china likeness of her that Papa and Mama had given me on my tenth birthday; I kept it on the windowsill in my bedroom.
    Mr. P. T. Barnum, the famous promoter, brought her here from Europe; he arranged her concerts and made her