The Friends gave Florrie a big white cradle, and every night Marcia and Lena took opposite sides of the cradle, rocking it and singing at the top of their voices until Florrie, for some reason, would fall asleep. Sometimes their father got out his shining yellow guitar and sang with them, teaching them to take different parts. When Mama had finished the supper dishes they had quartettes. Their father’s songs had many verses and were usually sad, with old men grieving for their childhood homes across the sea, mothers lamenting their dead children, little girls lost in the snowstorm, beautiful ladies dying because they had gone to the ball with a hectic flush, poor little Joe in the cold, cold night, and above all the honest Irish lad unable to get work in the city. The last was the favorite of all and they knew all the words. It went—

Our little farm was small
It would not support us all,
And one of us was forced away from home.
So I bid them all good-bye
With a teardrop in my eye,
And sailed for Castle Garden all alone.

When I landed in New York,
It was hard to get work;
I roamed about the streets from day to day.
I went from place to place
With starvation in my face—
Nobody had any work, they’d say.

Now I’m an honest Irish lad
And my home is far away;
If pleasing you I’ll either sing or dance.
I’ll do anything you say
If you’ll only name the day
You’ll give an honest Irish lad a chance.

It was all Marcia could do to keep from howling in sympathy as they sang, although Lena did not seem at all affected by these melodious tragedies. After Florrie had fallen asleep, the girls were allowed to go downstairs another hour to look at their picture books, Puss in Boots and Cinderella. But the most fun was when their mother told stories. On such evenings their father made a party of it. He would rap on the Friends’ door for them to come over and listen, and he would arrange the chairs as if for a show, all of them facing Mama’s chair. There was always an excitement about their father; his laughter, his rages, all of his movements were sudden; anger and pleasure exploded without warning or clear reason. When he invited the Friends, it always meant he was in a fine humor, proud of his family, tickled with everything Mama said or did.

“Come on in,” he’d say, “Daisy’s going to tell the kids stories.”

But the stories were really for him. He would put the children into their nightgowns and red Christmas robes with rabbit slippers, then plant them in their small rockers before the big stove. Mr. and Mrs. Friend settled themselves in their appointed chairs, waiting for their host to finish his preparations for the supper to come later—sardines and cheese and beer, or maybe an oyster stew.

“Harry’s a better cook than I am,” their mother always said. “Harry can do anything he puts his mind to.”