reading

"How I Came to Dowagiac"

(Memories of an Orphan Train Rider)

by Nancy Marie Payne

ISBN: 9781614681366

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Any resemblance to a person, living or dead, other than in the Author's Notes, is purely coincidental.

Published by: Top O' the Mountain Productions

New York

Edited by Mimi Moriarty

Illustrated by Debra-Jane Batcher

Printed by The Troy Book Makers

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For History Teachers

For All Storytellers

Pronunciation Guide

Dowagiac: doh-wah-g-ak

Part 1

How It Was Before

My First Family

My name is Elsie Dowdel. In 1854, when I lived in New York City, I had a family. I didn't understand that some children did not have families. They didn't have homes or clean clothes or food like I had. I learned a lot the year I was ten.

I lived with my mother and father in a building three-stories high. My father was the custodian of the building, which means he took care of it. He was also the most honest man I knew. He repaired things and kept the building clean and free of rubbish, but he never lied to the owners about doing work he didn't complete.

I loved him being around during the day, so I didn't mind that at night he wrote stories for magazines and newspapers. He was paid by the word, and he was very careful about counting his words so that he would not overcharge the publisher. He taught me to read and write before I went to school.

My mother was also around all day. She taught me to cook and sew and read music. She kept pigeons on the roof and I helped feed the pigeons every day. She sold the pigeons to restaurants and butchers, but always kept a few for special holidays when she served squab, that's roast Pigeon. She served it with roasted potatoes and turnips.

Whenever I went outdoors to play or to go to school, Mother gave me a thick slice of bread and a hunk of cheese, or sometimes a red juicy apple that squirted out of my mouth with the first bite. I never told Mother that sometimes I gave my food away to a young girl in the neighborhood.

My mother called my hair color a dirty blond. I guess you could say the girl's was the same color except that mine was brushed and hers was tangled with knots and really dirty. My clothes were clean and hers had holes - even her shoes had holes in the soles. Her name was Meg and she was a beggar, but not a scary beggar like some of them. When I gave her something, she'd do an awkward curtsey and say, "Thank you, Missy." That's what she called me, "Missy."

The Day Everything Changed

One afternoon, I was daydreaming as I walked home so I wasn't paying attention to much. I did notice lots of kids playing and the shopkeepers sweeping in front of their stores, and horses trotting down the street. When I was a few blocks from home, I heard the fire wagons.

There was always something burning in New York. Many of the buildings were made of wood, and most people burned wood in their stoves for cooking and staying warm. Watching the fire wagons rush by was always exciting, but after a while I lost interest unless the fire was close by.

That particular afternoon the smell of smoke was very heavy in the air. When I turned down my street, there were fire wagons right in front of my building! Or what was left of my building - just a few poles and sticks and black rubble. I looked at the street sign to make sure I was on the right street. How could a building be there in the morning and gone in the afternoon?

I hurried toward the crowd of people, looking for my parents. I could not find them, even though many of my neighbors were standing in the street. Most were dressed, but a few were wrapped in blankets. Many of them were crying because they had lost everything. I wanted to find my parents, and thought I would ask someone - like a constable or a fireman - who would know for sure where my parents were.