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Praise for

Whistling Women and Crowing Hens “Melora Fern has written a totally original and psychologically complex novel about her appealing young heroine Birdie’s coming of age as a “whistling woman” in an all-girl musical group with the famed Chautauqua Circuit as they travel the country on tour. Sexy, smart, and irresistible, this is historical fiction of a very high order—I literally could not put it down! Highly recommended.”

NY Times best-selling author, Lee Smith

“Whistling Women and Crowing Hens is a thoroughly immersive and uplifting tale, deftly exploring female ambition in the riotous 1920s. Birdie Stauffer is a winsome heroine, and readers will cheer for her to succeed both on-stage and off. As Birdie wrestles with learning to trust herself, a gripping love triangle and an entertaining cast of side characters impact her in unforeseen ways. Fern’s vivid details bring the historical time period and charming characters to life.”

—Heather Bell Adams, author of Maranatha Road and The Good Luck Stone

“Whistling Women and Crowing Hens is an immersive read set in the Chautauqua circuit of the 1920s. Talented whistler and trombonist Birdie Stauffer finds herself a member of a quintet performing throughout the northeast. When small-town Birdie steps into the wider world, she discovers aspects of herself she never knew existed. Increasingly at odds with societal and sisterly expectations, she must choose between following her truth and disappointing the most important people in her life. Melora Fern’s debut novel offers an unconventional coming of age story set against the backdrop of a nation doing the same. As the propriety of the Victorian era gives way to the anything-goes roaring twenties, women find themselves newly enfranchised and empowered, yet still traditional expectations endure.

Fern’s attention to detail and a cast of unforgettable characters make this book hard to put down. Full of the drama and humor that come from five women sharing close quarters for weeks at a time, Whistling Women and Crowing Hens is at times raucous, tragic, and uplifting. At its heart, this book is about finding one’s voice and singing (or whistling) it loud.”

—Culley Holderfield, author of Hemlock Hollow

“I’m drawn to stories of women’s self-discovery and the challenges they face, and Melora Fern’s Whistling Women and Crowing Hens is a true gem. Set in the Roaring Twenties as women defied societal norms, Birdie Stauffer enters the Chautauqua arts movement and discovers her extraordinary talent as a concert whistler. Although the Golden Age of musical whistling is past, this historical novel captured my heart as Birdie finds her voice and explores the world, love, and her unique path as a woman. Between her two suitors, a domineering sister, and her fellow choir members, Birdie must forge her own path in an era of newfound freedoms, all while remaining a heroine we admire. Melora Fern’s historical novel resonates with Prohibition-era nostalgia and warmth.”

—Julia Park Tracey, author of The Bereaved and I’ve Got Some Lovin’ to Do

“Settle into your armchair, because you won’t want to leave until the end of this whistlestop tour of the Roaring Twenties. When Birdie Stauffer leaves the nest to join the all-woman Versatile Quintet on the Chautauqua Circuit, she finds her wings and learns to soar. From the boarding house to the stage, from the hinterlands to the big city, Melora Fern’s Whistling Women and Crowing Hens will take you on an extraordinary journey of music, adventure, friendship and unexpected love.”

—Mimi Herman, author of The Kudzu Queen

Whistling and Women Crowing Hens A Novel

Melora Fern

Sibylline Press Copyright © 2025 by Melora Fern All Rights Reserved. Published in the United States by Sibylline Digital First, an imprint of All Things Book LLC, California. Sibylline Press is dedicated to publishing the brilliant work of women authors ages 50 and older. www.sibyllinepress.com Sibylline Digital First Edition ISBN ebook: 9781960573643 Print ISBN: 9781960573803 Library of Congress Control Number: 2025931532 Cover Design: Alicia Feltman Book Production: Leo Baquero

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

To all my Birdies

“Whistling women and crowing hens Always come to some bad ends.” —American folk saying

“Girls who whistle and hens that crow Will make their way wherever they go.” —Agnes Woodward

CHAPTER 1 West Chester, Pennsylvania, March 1924

irdie Stauffer emptied the valve by blowing spit onto a rag she’d tossed on the floor. She worked the trombone’s slide back and forth as her sister Lydia took one more bow. The stuffy room filled with polite applause that evolved into the comfortable sound of female chatter. Lydia winced. “Bertha. I’ve told you to do that in the privacy of our home.” She swiped the pages of sheet music from their ornate music stand then placed them in her satchel. “Yes, ma’am.” Birdie tucked the rag and offensive instrument snug in its worn case. For the past five years Birdie and Lydia had entertained at local ladies’ luncheons because as Lydia often said, it was their duty to bring sophisticated culture to their community. Birdie went along with Lydia’s creative crusade, just like she did with most of Lydia’s ideas. It made everyone’s life easier. She snapped the trombone case shut and gave herself a little hug before she faced Lydia. “You played Sousa perfectly today.” Lydia beamed. “At last, you’re ready to perform with me at the Pocono Manor Resort.” Birdie had Lydia’s Shakespearean monologues memorized; she could mimic each dramatic pause and theatrical gesture. Birdie surveyed today’s audience, noting the many yawns and nodding heads.

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She questioned if she wanted to impress the West Chester Auxiliary Women’s Club crowd like her older sister. “Pardon me.” An elegant woman tapped their music stand with her folded fan. “Ah, Mrs. Wilcox.” Lydia extended her gloved hand, nudging Birdie aside. “We enjoyed your little show.” She motioned to the slender young woman who stood beside her. “I’d like you to meet my niece, Helen Wilcox, first in her class at Curtis Music Institute. She’s quite impressed with your sister’s talent.” A slight frown passed before Lydia’s face turned broad then fixed, as if performing again. “Is that so?” Helen stepped around Lydia to extend her hand in front of Birdie. “Delighted to meet you.” Birdie wasn’t sure what to do, so she shook Helen’s hand once while she admired Helen’s audacity plus her unique brooch with two intertwined swallows. “Join me for some punch?” Helen’s emerald drop-waist dress and traveling cloak matched her lively eyes. She looked as if she had stepped out of one of Birdie’s taboo Vogue magazines. Oh, to own a modern outfit like that. “Thank you, but Bertha has obligations with me.” Lydia placed a hand on Birdie’s shoulder. “I do however.” Birdie faced her sister. “I’ll only be gone a few minutes and will return with some punch for you as well.” Birdie’s stomach fluttered. Most days she accepted doting on Lydia, especially considering her older sister’s delicate condition. What made her challenge Lydia today? “Be quick about it.” Lydia removed her hand from Birdie as she narrowed her eyes at Helen for a brief second. “There are several ladies you need to greet.” Helen eased them away from the growing cluster of elderly women

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surrounding Lydia. She reminded Birdie of someone but couldn’t place who. “I believe your sister will be well attended.” Helen ladled pink punch into two crystal cups then handed one to Birdie. “She appears to enjoy the limelight.” Helen’s laugh resonated like glass wind chimes. Birdie sipped the maraschino cherry punch, admiring Helen’s Marcel-waved haircut. Helen must suspect Birdie was stuck in the medieval times with her long hair twisted up in a low bun. “What about you? Do you like the stage as well?” Helen popped an entire deviled egg into her mouth. “I guess I do.” Birdie nodded towards Lydia. “I’m obviously not as talented as my sister.” “I think you’re better.” Helen shielded her mouth with her hand. “I adored your arrangement of Sousa’s ‘The White Rose.’ Who taught you the trombone?” “My Uncle Bert. He thought it would be hilarious if a young lady played trombone.” Birdie tucked one worn button-up boot behind the other as she glanced down at Helen’s T-strapped pumps. “Little did he realize I’d take to it so.” “You’re a natural on the stage.” Birdie spooned salted almonds into her palm from a pedestal dish. Several tumbled on the lace tablecloth. “Ah, where’s your Music Institute?” “Philly. I’m studying classical piano and composition.” Helen scooped the wayward almonds into her hand then ate them. Birdie almost choked. Helen had manners that would make Lydia gasp. “That must be exciting. I adore Philadelphia,” Birdie said after she got her voice back. “Philly’s where I was raised. But I’ve got bigger plans for this summer.” Helen’s eyes widened a bit. “I’m auditioning for the Westdale Chautauqua circuit next week.”

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“Glory be.” Westdale Chautauqua was the most discriminating of all the traveling circuits. “You should audition too.” “Me?” It felt like an almond had lodged in Birdie’s throat. “To be on the level, I’ve seen several of your variety act performances.” “Oh.” Birdie tilted her head. “I asked my aunt to introduce us so I could encourage you to audition.” Helen pushed some hair behind her right ear. Traveling with a Chautauqua circuit could be the ticket Birdie needed to leave Lydia and Gerald’s home. Recently they had become infatuated with introducing her to every single man they knew—each dreadful bachelor a bigger dolt than the one before. Birdie wished for something other than marriage to a stuffy Pennsylvanian businessman and performing at ladies’ luncheons. She finished her punch. Lydia wouldn’t like the idea of auditioning. “I doubt if I’m qualified to perform with Westdale.” “A pretty blonde who has mastered the trombone would be quite the cat’s meow. Do you have other musical talents?” Birdie hadn’t been called pretty for years. “Uh, I also perform monologues, play piano, sing, and …” “What?” Birdie lowered her voice. “… imitate bird songs and calls. I know many.” “I knew it.” Helen clapped once. “You are uniquely talented. Let’s hear one.” “I can’t here.” Birdie shuddered at the thought. “My sister would faint from embarrassment.” “Let’s go outside then.” “I should bring Lydia her punch.” Birdie looked over her shoulder, Lydia basked in the middle of her circle of admirers. “I’m certain one of her entourage will serve her.” Helen led the way

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around the long buffet table and pushed the double wooden doors open with both arms. A crisp breeze welcomed them. Birdie snickered; they were two schoolgirls sneaking away from the principal. Helen pulled a felt blue Musketeer hat from one sleeve then slipped her arms inside her cloak. She placed the hat at an angle and gently pulled the two corners down. “The fresh air is delightful.” Birdie turned around to stare at the building behind them. “I forgot my hat; do you think I’ll be scolded by the ladies?” She meant Lydia, who would disapprove if she saw Birdie outside without her beret. Birdie pined for a trendy hat like Helen’s. Lydia seemed determined to keep Birdie in pinafores and hair bows even though she had turned nineteen. “Never mind them.” They walked along a path to a little garden. Birdie lowered her eyes. The Mount Gretna Chautauqua stage complete with the row of lime lights, the upright piano, and the hollow wooden platform formed in her mind. She could smell the straw that covered the ground, buttered popcorn, and the musky canvas tent. She saw rows of chairs filled with a rapt audience. Lydia had favored the theatre production on the last day, Gerald liked the lectures, but Birdie preferred the variety of musical acts. The opening act of a trio of women fiddlers playing Sousa’s “The Liberty Bell” had been her favorite. Once a harpist mesmerized her with long black hair that brushed the stage when she swayed as her fingers plucked the strings. Birdie pictured herself next to the piano, trombone poised to play Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag,” a tune that would surely make Lydia and her matron friends frown. Helen tugged at Birdie’s elbow. “Hey, you.” “Oh. Sorry. I got lost in my thoughts.” Birdie scrunched her nose. “Lydia complains that my mind wanders like a chicken in search of its head.”

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“It sounds like your sister and my aunt were raised together.” Helen relaxed on a sunlit bench and patted the wooden slats in invitation. “Nickel for those wandering thoughts?” Birdie tucked her skirt under her legs as she eased onto the bench. A slight breeze freed strands loose from her bun. “Mount Gretna is where we first saw the three-day Chautauqua circuit show years ago.” She tucked the wisps behind her ear. “I was, well, dreaming of that stage.” “Atta girl.” Helen clapped her on the back. “Now, let’s hear one of your bird calls.” Birdie scooted to the edge with her back straight. She detected a cardinal’s chirp off in the distance. She wet her lips, puckered up and whistled one of the Northern Cardinal’s songs, a string of clear downslurred notes ending in a trill. First a red flash then the male cardinal landed on a branch in a budding mulberry tree across from them. He echoed her call. Helen clasped her hands. “Oh. Do that again.” Birdie whistled identical to his notes. The cardinal tilted his head and repeated his song. “You are the bee’s knees, Bertha. You matched that bird in perfect pitch.” A giggle bubbled out before she could stop it. “Please, call me Birdie, it’s been my nickname forever.” “It’s fitting.” Gold flecks speckled in Helen’s green eyes. “Audition with me next week, Birdie.” The idea of auditioning nibbled at Birdie. All’s well that ends well: still fine’s the crown; Whate’er the course, the end is the renown. Birdie mouthed the memorized lines of Lydia’s Shakespearean free verse. She dreaded a summer filled with luncheon monologues and mediocre bachelors. The only bright note was Lydia’s pregnancy. Birdie relished the idea of being an aunt. The baby wasn’t due until late autumn; surely the circuit would be finished by then.

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“Bertha,” Lydia called, drawing out her beckoning to match the wide sweep of her arm. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” She stood just outside the double doors dressed in an outdated beige wool cloak with matching wide-brimmed hat. Birdie sprinted towards her sister. “You’ll never believe this.” She stopped catching her breath. “Helen suggested I audition for the Westdale Chautauqua Circuit.” “That’s nonsense.” Lydia waved the idea away. “Those circuit performers travel far and wide.” She turned towards the building. “Where’s your hat? Gerald’s waiting by the entrance.” Birdie’s shoulders sagged. If it wasn’t Lydia’s idea, it couldn’t be a good one. Helen had stepped so close Birdie caught her citrus scent. When Birdie felt Helen’s slim fingers squeeze her arm, it emboldened her. Lifting her chin, Birdie cleared her throat. “But Lydia.” Birdie reached towards her sister. “I’d like to audition.” Blood pumped loud in her chest. Lydia turned, her left eyebrow arched and twitched at the edge. Birdie squared her shoulders. Last time she had received that look was when she had asked to wear her stockings rolled below her knees. “Come with me.” Lydia pulled Birdie’s arm away from Helen. “We’ll discuss this at home.” “It was something to meet you, Lydia.” Helen gave a slight bow. She slid the audition flier into Birdie’s hand and winked before she turned back towards the sunlit bench. Lydia harrumphed at Helen. “Now, Bertha.” Catching Helen’s gaze, Birdie nodded her thanks with crossed fingers. Pebbles scattered on the path when she turned. Birdie glanced upwards for inspiration on how to convince Lydia to let her audition. Two swallows dipped and danced before the thin white clouds. They made her think of Helen’s exquisite brooch. If she could finagle ways to avoid boring bachelors, Birdie would find a way to win Lydia’s approval.

CHAPTER 2 343 Walnut Street, West Chester, Pennsylvania

irdie backed out of the screen door as she carried a silver tray stacked with cups of steaming coffee, cream, sugar, and a plate topped with raspberry scones. She lowered the heavy tray to the wicker table where Lydia and her husband, Gerald sat opposite in matching chairs. “I would have helped with that if you had asked.” Lydia straightened her crocheted blanket over her lap. “Oh no. You shouldn’t do heavy lifting.” Birdie scanned the spacious front porch of 343 Walnut Street, her home the past several years. This was where she had become fascinated with Uncle Bert’s trombone and had practiced her bird songs with Edwin. She had suggested the porch for today’s morning coffee knowing it would give her added courage. Birdie picked up one delicate cup with saucer and handed it to Lydia. She reached for the second cup and knocked it over, spilling hot coffee onto the saucer, plate of scones, and the tray. “Goodness sakes, Bertha.” Lydia pushed her blanket aside and started to rise. “It’s nothing.” Gerald blotted the spilled coffee with a tea towel then handed the remaining cup and saucer to Birdie. “I’ve already had my two cups this morning.” Birdie accepted the coffee with a steady hand. She lowered herself onto the cushioned chair and listened for songbirds perched in the bare

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dogwood trees. She added two sugar cubes and a splash of cream to her coffee while confirming four different bird calls. She resisted the urge to join in their morning conversation to avoid irritating Lydia any further. “We have a new copywriter starting today.” Gerald eased back into his chair with a wink at Birdie. “His name is James Becker and he’s from Lancaster. I hear he’s quite the dapper dresser.” “You should invite him to supper this week.” Lydia sipped her black coffee. “Poor soul doesn’t know anyone in West Chester.” “You two aren’t fooling me.” Birdie placed a coffee-soaked scone on the edge of her saucer. “I know what you’re up to.” All the more reason to audition. This matchmaking had gotten out of hand since her recent birthday. “And what’s wrong with meeting an educated young man?” Lydia reached for a scone, drawing back once she saw all had been splattered with coffee. “I’d say I made an excellent choice.” Her eyes shone on Gerald for a brief unfiltered moment. “Nothing.” Birdie took a tiny bite and swallowed. She could do this. She appealed to God for the correct words. “It’s just that I’m ready to meet people from beyond Chester County.” “Now that sounds adventurous.” Gerald broke off a generous portion of his scone. “That’s one of the reasons auditioning for Westdale Chautauqua Circuit makes good sense.” Birdie leaned forward to count her extended fingers. “Another reason—” “Just a minute, young lady.” Gerald cocked his head. “What are you talking about? This is news to me.” “Some flapper put a harebrained idea into Bertha’s head yesterday at the ladies’ luncheon.” Lydia brushed invisible lint off Gerald’s vest. “Helen is not some flapper. She’s Mrs. Wilcox’s niece. She’s training to be a classical pianist at Curtis Music Institute in Philadelphia.” Birdie faced Gerald. “Westdale Chautauqua is holding auditions for

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their Versatile Quartet next week. I’d like to audition.” Birdie told herself ‘Atta girl’ and felt Helen’s presence in the morning breeze. “Please, tell us more.” Gerald had become Birdie’s advocate since her older brother Edwin had passed five years ago. Gerald wasn’t as adept at persuading Lydia, but he was all Birdie had. For the umpteenth time, the hollowness her favorite sibling left made her wish she could change fate. Birdie shifted in her chair, refocusing her attention. She smoothed out the flier Helen had slipped her. Birdie had it memorized but knew reading facts held more sway. “The Versatile Quartet audition is next Tuesday at Westdale College at nine a.m. sharp.” She glanced up at Gerald who sat with his hands formed in an open steeple. Lydia’s attention had been captured by the neighbor’s tomcat, who crouched on the bottom step eyeing the robins. Birdie sprang from her chair and clapped her hands loudly to shoo away the intrusive cat. “We’re to have two pieces prepared that showcase our unique talent and six copies of our résumé.” Birdie scooped up the flier and eased back into her wicker chair. “It sounds exciting, doesn’t it?” “It does.” Gerald rubbed his chin while he watched Lydia out of the corner of his eye. “Does it say anything about the time commitment or pay?” “That’s the best part. If selected, I’m paid sixty dollars a week.” Birdie knew that would sell Gerald. “And they travel this summer all over eastern United States, even to Canada.” Birdie sat so far forward she almost fell off her chair. She inched back to brace herself for Lydia’s response. Lydia pinched her lips as if holding three silver hat pins before attaching her favorite ostrich feather. It took most of Birdie’s composure to wait for Lydia to speak. If she had a penny for every time Lydia quoted ‘Patience is a virtue,’ Birdie could have afforded a modern dress, cloak, and cloche. She held her face calm and stopped her toes from tapping against the cement porch floor. Gerald finally broke the silence. “Well, dear, will I hear what you think of Bertha’s idea before I leave for the office?” He stood, tucking

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his folded newspaper under his arm. “Or are you going to make me wait ‘til supper?” He put a hand on the back of Birdie’s chair. “It appears as if you two have already made up my mind for me.” Lydia tugged at the top button of her lace collar. “Quite the contrary.” Gerald removed his hand. “However, I trust you’ll listen to the complete list of Bertha’s reasons before dismissing her idea.” He went inside and came out wearing his gray Homburg. “Perhaps you sisters can work out an arrangement where both my girls will be happy.” Leaning over, he kissed Lydia’s cheek, patted Birdie’s shoulder, then took off down the steps. Just like Gerald, offering a morsel of help before dashing off. Birdie watched his frame become smaller as he passed the brick houses that lined their neighborhood block. Continued patience was her best tactic now that she was alone with Lydia. The diminishing bird chatter seemed to agree. “Perhaps we should move to the kitchen. Every one of these scones is ruined.” Lydia pushed her chair back. Not the kitchen. That was Lydia’s domain. Birdie reached over and moved the top scones aside. “Here’s a perfect one. Not soggy in the least.” She placed it on one of the saucers and offered it to Lydia. “So, tell me these brilliant reasons you think you should be traipsing across the country this summer.” She inspected the scone and broke off a piece with her fork. Taking a breath of the fragrant spring air, Birdie cleared her throat before listing her well-rehearsed reasons. “One, Westdale Chautauqua is United Methodist based. Two, it’s only for the summer, I’ll be home in plenty of time to welcome our newest family member.” A shot of guilt ran through her body, but she continued. “Three, Chautauquas spread culture and enrichment to rural America, just as we do for the West Chester ladies.” She continued counting each reason on her fingers as she had practiced. “Four, working with other talented artists will make me a better musician. Five, a circuit Chautauqua experience enhances

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my résumé. And six, I will save every cent I earn.” She closed her hands hoping six reasons were enough. Lydia pushed her half-eaten scone aside and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Birdie sighed. She might as well have asked to go to a speakeasy with her girlfriends; the same negative response must be coming. “Bertha, as you know, I’ve been responsible for you since our parents met their early demise, God rest their souls.” Lydia clasped her hands over her heart and looked to the ceiling. “I take my obligation quite seriously.” Uh-oh, one of Lydia’s virtue lectures. Birdie had been ten when her mother then her father passed due to consumption. Their mother had been called a saint—kind and encouraging to everyone. Lydia, nine years older, had the conviction she’d always been Birdie’s mother. Birdie plastered on her most congenial expression. “I am well aware that there are times you don’t agree with my decisions, but I do care what’s best for you as a proper lady.” Lydia draped her hands over her mid-section. “As you have remarked, Gerald and I believe it’s time you found a husband and started your own family. It’s our duty to see that you wed a responsible, employed man. Do you honestly believe you’ll meet an educated suitable spouse on your travels with Chautauqua?” Lydia’s abrupt question caught Birdie off guard. Her usual lectures continued for over five minutes. Maybe pregnancy softened her manner. “I do, Lydia.” Birdie took a minute to gather her convoluted thoughts. The potential weight of her answer made her shoulders ache. “The managers, workers, and most of the talent are college educated. You’ve been to Mount Gretna Chautauqua and seen for yourself that it’s a high-brow operation.” Birdie tried not to show her eagerness, but she felt a small crack forming in Lydia’s resolve.

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Lydia settled back into her cushioned chair. “What are the exact dates?” “April twenty-first through October thirty-first.” “You’d miss both the Memorial Day and Labor Day family reunions.” “That disappoints me too, but it’s just this one time.” Birdie ran her hands up and down her arms to calm herself. “And of course, I’d be home well before your date of confinement in November.” She cast up another silent prayer. Lydia remained still. Birdie couldn’t decipher the thoughts behind Lydia’s eyes. She concentrated on the words of the ‘Don’t Quit’ poem her mother had embroidered years ago. The framed sampler hung over her bed. “Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to let you audition. We don’t even know if you’ll make it.” “Oh, thank you.” Birdie jumped up to give Lydia a hug. Lydia held up her hands. “Now don’t get overexcited. Have you even thought about your audition pieces?” “Oh yes. I could start with my ‘Miss Congeniality’ monologue, which you have already helped me perfect.” It took most of Birdie’s willpower not to twirl in joyous circles around the porch. “Let me see that flier,” Lydia beseeched with her outstretched fingers. Birdie handed her the wrinkled paper. She could have recited it word for word. “Everyone is to sing two verses of ‘America the Beautiful’ for the vocal audition.” The corners of Lydia’s lips turned down. Did she have something against that patriotic song? “‘Down by the Old Millstream’ for my trombone piece?” “No.” Lydia dismissed that as if flicking away a fly. Now that Lydia had acquiesced to the idea of auditioning, she would take over. Birdie’s easiest response meant letting Lydia select her audition pieces.

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“‘Stars and Stripes’ would be better suited to impress the judges.” Lydia nodded her head as if to confirm her own brilliance. “What if I whistled some of my bird calls too?” Birdie figured with Edwin’s heavenly influence she might pass the audition. She whistled the rhythmic pattern of an American Robin greeting the day. “Whistling women and crowing hens never come to a good end.” Lydia scolded Birdie. “Act your age, you are not the young whistling prodigy that mother promoted.” Lydia had made it clear that she didn’t appreciate Birdie’s whistling, yet never before with that depressing saying. She had especially frowned when their mother had encouraged Birdie’s whistling of hymns at church. Birdie wouldn’t allow herself to care what Lydia thought of whistling. She focused on the unfathomable fact that she had convinced Lydia auditioning for the Westdale Chautauqua Circuit made sense. She wished she could let Helen know. Lydia stood up and straightened the cups on the tray. “You’d best get practicing; Tuesday is not that far away.” “Of course.” Birdie broke up the remainder of Lydia’s scone and sprinkled the crumbs along the half wall of the porch for her birds. “Thank you.” Birdie whispered towards the sky as she hefted the silver tray with both arms. “One more thing, Bertha.” Lydia turned just inside the screen door. “You must promise to choose one of our suitors by Christmas. No more fabricated reasons for why each bachelor is incompatible.” Her left eyebrow arched and twitched. Birdie almost dropped the tray. She should have known Lydia saw through her ruse and wouldn’t give in so completely. Birdie abhorred the idea of marrying one of Gerald’s stuffy employees. Her determination to travel with Chautauqua became more profound. “All right Lydia. I promise.” She would figure out how to deal with bachelors later.

CHAPTER 3 Swarthmore, Pennsylvania

irdie sauntered along the outside platform of the Swarthmore station after her train had continued on to Philadelphia. The caboose wound its way around the track then disappeared behind a grove of trees. Lydia had grumbled when Birdie asked to take the earliest train from West Chester. She only agreed once Birdie explained it would help calm her nerves and Gerald offered to drive Birdie to the station. Staring at the empty track, Birdie crossed fingers with both hands. The westbound train from Philadelphia was due in ten minutes. She imagined Helen dressed in a long jacket belted over a slim skirt or a tailored dress trimmed along the collar like the models from Birdie’s fashion magazines. She wished Lydia had let her buy a drop waist dress or at least a cloche for the audition. Birdie set down her trombone case to tug at her wool skirt, straighten her beret, and scold herself. At least she was here for the Westdale Chautauqua Circuit audition and that alone was quite an accomplishment. After what seemed like an hour, a train pulled into the simple clapboard station, filling the platform with steam. Birdie tried to appear nonchalant as she watched each passenger exit the train cars. A green cloak and a blue Musketeer hat confirmed her hopes. Helen walked straight towards Birdie as if she had no doubt Birdie would be right there waiting.