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There has been some discussion in the Day family, among its members and friends, of the things that I say about Father and Mother. One of their objections is that in several places I haven't been accurate. I have tried to be, but memories are sometimes inexact, and mine is no exception.

However, these pieces have been subjected to a great deal of scrutiny, helpful and otherwise, from members of the family who have sometimes remembered things differently. Cousin Julia for instance insists that Mother's musicales occurred in the evening, whereas I have described one as taking place in the late afternoon. I feel sure that in this case I am right, for we used to write each other long letters about family doings and these have given me contemporary accounts of the scenes I've described. Other scenes have come down through the years as family anecdotes. Since I was an actor in most of them they have remained dramatically printed on my mind. Besides, any memories of two such persons as Father and Mother are bound to be vivid.

The other family objection is that in printing these stories I have not been decently reticent. My feeling was that these two persons were so utterly themselves, so completely natural and true, that the only good way to tell about them was to paint them just as they were.

The first article I printed about them was written one night when I needed an extra paragraph for a column which I was occasionally writing, that year, for the literary supplement of the New York Evening Post.

On a visit to Father and Mother one summer I found that they had a new dog. He was leading a happy and interesting life with them, but a somewhat bewildered one too. I had made a note in my diary of the following instance:

My father is fond of dogs. Likes to train them. His method is this: He says to the new dog, "Good Jackie," or whatever the name is. The dog wags his tail. "Come here," says my father; "come here, boy." The dog looks at him doubtfully. My father, who hasn't a great deal of patience, raises his voice: "Come! Come here, sir!"

The dog grows alarmed and tries to get out.

My father advances upon him, repeating, "Come here!" with increasing annoyance and sternness.

"I wish you'd let Jackie alone," says my mother. "He doesn't know what you want of him."

"Pooh! Of course he does," declares my father. "He knows damn well. Come here, sir!" And he drags the new dog from under the sofa.

"Sit up," he instructs him. The dog is utterly limp. "Sit up. Come! Sit up." He shakes his finger at him. "Sit up, sir!"

"Oh, please don't," says my mother. "How can you expect the poor thing to sit up when he doesn't know a word that you're saying!"

"Will you let me alone?" shouts my father. "Sit up, sir! Sit up!"

My mother goes to the door. "I'll not stay here and see that dog frightened to death."

"Frighten!" my father says, testily. "What nonsense! I know dogs. They all like me."

The dog sees the door being opened and suddenly bolts.

My father grabs fiercely at him. In vain. "Confound it!" he says, in a passion. "Now see what you've done! You've spoiled my whole plan." He stamps.

"You could never--" my mother begins.

"I COULD!" roars my father. "But I can't do a thing if I'm interfered with. Where's that dog gone? JACKIE! Here, Jackie! Come here, sir!"

I copied this fragment out of my diary, tucked it in as a filler, and when it appeared I showed it to Mother.

"I remember that day," she said. "That's just the way he always treats dogs." She hurried off with the clipping to where Father was, in the library. "Here, Clare," she said triumphantly, "read this!"

Father read it in his usual slow, careful, methodical way, taking note of each word. He looked up at Mother with a smile of satisfaction and sympathy. "I hope you'll behave yourself after this," he chuckled, "that's just how you kept interfering with my training that dog."

This emboldened me to try my hand at describing a few other incidents of our family life, scenes which I felt were too good to remain buried for ever. They came out in Harper's. Every time one appeared it became a subject of debate between Father and Mother. For some reason or other, perhaps because they were without self-consciousness, the publicity seemed to be of small or no concern to them, so long as each felt I had been strictly accurate and presented his or her side so clearly that the other should blush. Neither of them ever did blush, however. They got so provoked at each other once or twice, because of this, that they went back and re-fought the whole battle.

These sketches were read by other persons, friends of theirs--including some who had felt rather buffeted, when they had been our guests, by the sudden indoor squalls or tornadoes that characterised our family life. They told me that these stray fragments had made them understand Father better.

Strangers wrote to me that this or that member of their own families was very much like Father. The effect upon most of these readers was to enroll them as Father's friends.

So a few years after Father and Mother died I began again describing old scenes.

These characters may or may not be Father and Mother. All I can say is that they are Father and Mother as I saw them.