A Story of Comfort
[Illustration: SEELA IS THE BABY IN THE MIDDLE.
She slipped into the picture at the last moment, and so was caught
unawares. Mala is to the right; Nullinie to the left. (This little one's
left hand and foot are partially paralyzed through drugging in
infancy.)]
AMONG the stories of comfort is one that belongs to our merry little
Seela. She is bigger now than when the despairing photographer broke
thirteen plates in the vain attempt to catch her; but she is still most
elusive and alluring, a veritable baby, though over two years old. Some
months ago, the Iyer measured her, and told her she was thirty-two
inches of mischief. For weeks afterwards, when asked her name, she
always replied with gravity, "Terty-two inses of mistef."
All who have to do with babies know how different they can be in
disposition and habits. There is the shop-window baby, who shows all her
innocent wares at once to everyone kind enough to look. She is a
charming baby. And there is the little wild bird of the wood, who will
answer your whistle politely, if you know how to whistle her note; but
she will not trust herself near you till she is sure of you. Seela is
that sort of baby. We have watched her when she has been approached by
some unfamiliar presence, and seen her summon all her baby dignity to
keep her from breaking into tears of overwhelming shyness. Give her time
to observe you from under long, drooping lashes; give her time to make
sure--then the mischief will sparkle out, and something of the real
child. But only something, never all, till you become a relation; with
those who are only acquaintances Seela, like Bala, has many reserves.
Seela's joy is to be considered old and allowed to go to the
kindergarten. She takes her place with the bigger babies, and tries to
do all she sees them do. Sometimes a visitor looks in, and then Seela,
naturally, will do nothing; but if the visitor is wise and takes no
notice, she will presently be rewarded by seeing the eager little face
light up again, and the fat hands busily at work. Seela is not supposed
to be learning very seriously; but she seems to know nearly as much as
some of the older children, and her quaint attempts at English are much
appreciated. Seela has her faults. She likes to have her own way, and
once was observed to slap severely an offender almost twice her own
size; but on the whole she is a peaceful little person, beloved by all
the other babies, both senior and junior. Her great ambition is to
follow Chellalu into all possible places of mischief. Anything Chellalu
can do Seela will attempt; and as she is more brave than steady on her
little feet, she has many a narrow escape. Her latest escapade was to
follow her reckless leader in an attempt to walk round the top of the
back of a large armchair, the cane rim of which is a slippery slant, two
inches wide.
On the morning of her arrival, not liking to leave her even for a few
minutes, I carried her to the early tea-table, when she saw the Iyer and
smiled her first smile to him. From that day on she has been his loyal
little friend. At first his various absences from home perplexed her.
She would toddle off to his room and hunt everywhere for him, even under
his desk and behind his waste-paper basket, and then she returned to the
dining-room with a puzzled little face. "Iyer is not!" "Where is he,
Seela?" "Gone to Heaven!" was her invariable reply. When he returned
from that distant sphere she never displayed the least surprise. That is
not our babies' way. She calmly accepted him as a returned possession;
stood by his chair waiting for the invitation, "Climb up"; climbed up as
if he had never been away--and settled down to bliss.
Part of this bliss consists in being supplied with morsels of toast and
biscuit and occasional sips of tea. Sometimes there is that delicious
luxury, a spoonful of the unmelted sugar at the bottom of the cup. For
Seela is a baby after all, and does not profess to be like grown-up
people who do not appreciate nice things to eat, being, of course,
entirely superior to food; but, excitable little damsel as she is in all
other matters, her table manners are most correct, and she shows her
appreciation of kind attentions in characteristic fashion. A smile, so
quick under the black lashes that only one on the look-out for it would
see it, a sudden confiding little nestle closer to the giver--these are
her only signs of pleasure; and if no notice is taken of her, she sits
in silent patience. Sometimes, if politeness be mistaken for
indifference, a shadow creeps into her eyes, a sort of pained surprise
at the obtuseness of the great; but she rarely makes any remark, and
never points or asks, as the irrepressible Chellalu does in spite of all
our admonitions. If, however, Seela is being attended to and fed at
judicious intervals, and she knows the intention is to feed her
comfortably, then her attitude is different. She feels a reminder will
be acceptable; and as soon as she has disposed of a piece of biscuit,
she quietly holds up an empty little hand, and glances fearlessly up to
the face that looks down with a smile upon her. This little silent,
empty hand, held up so quietly, has often spoken to us of things
unknown to our little girl; and as if to enforce the lesson, the other
babies, to our amusement, apparently noticing the gratifying result of
Seela's upturned hand, began to hold up their little hands with the same
silent expectancy, till all round the table small hands were raised in
perfect silence, by hopeful infants of observant habits and strong
faith.
[Illustration: THE COTTAGE NURSERY.]
Mala, the rather stolid-looking little girl to the right of the
photograph, is Seela's elder sister. She is not so square-faced as the
photograph shows her, and she is much more interesting. This little one
seems to us to have in some special sense the grace of God upon her; for
her nursery life is so happy and blameless and unselfish, that we rarely
have to wish her different in anything. Her coming, with little Seela's,
is one of the very gladdest of our Overweights of Joy.
We heard of the little sisters through a mission schoolmaster,
who--knowing that they had been left motherless, and that a Hindu of
good position had obtained something equivalent to powers of
guardianship, and thus empowered had placed them with a Temple
woman--was most anxious to save them, and wrote to us; and, as he
expressed it, "also earnestly and importunately prayed the benign
British Government to intervene."
The Collector to whom the petition was sent was a friend of ours. He
knew about the nursery work, and was ready to do all he could; but he
did not want a disturbance with the Caste and Temple people, and so
advised us to try to get the children privately. We sent our wisest
woman-worker, Ponnamal, to the town, and she saw the principal people
concerned; but they entirely refused to give up the children. The man
who had adopted them had got his authority from the local Indian
sub-magistrate; and contended that as the Government had given them to
him, no one had any right to take them from him; "and even if the
Government itself ordered me to give them up, I never will. I will never
let them go." This in Tamil is even more explicit: "The hold by which I
hold them I will never let go." Ponnamal returned, weary in mind and in
body, after three days of travelling and effort; she had caught a
glimpse of the baby, and the little face haunted her. The elder child
was reported very miserable, and she had seen nothing of her. The
guardian, of course, had not dealt with her direct; but she heard he had
taken legal advice, and was sure of his position. There was nothing
hopeful to report. Once again we tried, but in vain. By this time a new
bond had been formed, for the guardian had become attached to little
Seela, and spent his time, so we heard, in playing with her. He let it
be known that nothing would ever make him give her up. "She is in my
hand, and my hand will never let go."
Then suddenly news came that he was dead. The baby had sickened with
cholera. He had nursed her and contracted the disease. In two days he
had died. He had been compelled to let go.
Then the feeling of all concerned changed completely. It hardly needed
the Collector's order, given with the utmost promptitude, to cause the
Temple woman to give the children up. To the Indian mind, quick to see
the finger of God in such an event, the thing was self-evident. An
unseen Power was at work here. Who were they that they should withstand
it? A telegram told us the children were safe, and next day we had them
here.
The baby was happy at once; but the elder little one, then a child of
about three and a half, was very sorrowful. She was so pitifully
frightened, too, that at first we could do nothing with her; and there
was a look in her eyes that alarmed us, it was so distraught and
unchildlike. "My mother did her best for them," wrote the kind
schoolmaster to whose house the children had been taken when the Temple
woman gave them up; "but the elder one has fever. She is always
muttering to herself, and can neither stand nor sit." She could stand
and sit now, only there was the "muttering," and the terrible look of
bewilderment worse than pain. For days it was a question with us as to
whether she would ever recover perfectly. That first night we had to
give her bromide, and she woke very miserable. Next day she stood by the
door waiting for her mother, as it seemed; for under her breath she was
constantly whispering, "Amma! Amma!" ("Mother! Mother!") She never cried
aloud, only sobbed quietly every now and then. She would not let us
touch her, but shrank away terrified if we tried to pet her. All through
the third day she sat by the door. This was better than the weary
standing, but pitiful enough. On the morning of the fourth day she sat
down again for a long watch; but once when her little hand went up to
brush away a tear, we saw there was a toy in it, and that gave us hope.
That night she went to bed with a doll, an empty tin, and a ball in her
arms; and the next day she let us play with her in a quiet, reserved
fashion. Next morning she woke happy.
The babies teach us much, and sometimes their unconscious lessons
illuminate the deeper experiences of life. One such illumination is
connected in my mind with the little trellised verandah, shown in the
photograph, of the cottage used as a nursery when Mala and Seela came to
us.
It was the hour between lights, and five babies under two years old were
waiting for their supper--Seela, Tara, and Evu (always a hungry baby),
Ruhinie, usually irrepressible, but now in very low spirits, and a tiny
thing with a face like a pansy--all five thinking longingly of supper.
These five had to wait till the fresh milk came in, as their food was
special; that evening the cows had wandered home with more than their
usual leisureliness from their pasture out in the jungle, and so the
milk was late.
The babies, who do not understand the weary ways of cows, disapproved of
having to wait, and were fractious. To add to their depression, the boy
whose duty it was to light the lamps and lanterns had been detained, and
the trellised verandah was dark. So the five fretful babies made remarks
to each other, and threw their toys about in that exasperated fashion
which tells you the limits of patience have been passed; and the most
distressed began to whimper.
At this point a lantern was brought and set behind me, so that its light
fell upon the discarded toys, miscellaneous but beloved--a china head
long parted from its body, one whole new doll, a tin with little stones
in it, a matchbox, and other sundries. If anything will comfort them,
their toys will, I thought, as I directed their attention to the tin
with its pleasant rattling pebbles, and the other scattered treasures on
the mat. But the babies looked disgusted. Toys were a mockery at that
moment. Evu seized the china head and flung it as far as ever she could.
Tara sat stolid, with two fingers in her mouth. Seela turned away,
evidently deeply hurt in her feelings, and the other two cried. Not one
of them would find consolation in toys.
Then the pansy-faced baby, Prasie, pointed out to the bushes, where
something dangerous, she was quite sure, was moving; and she wailed a
wail of such infectious misery that all the babies howled. And one
rolled over near the lantern which was on the floor behind me, and for
safety's sake I moved it, and its light fell on my face. In a moment all
five babies were tumbling over me with little exclamations of delight,
and they nestled on my lap, caressing and content.
Are there not evenings when our toys have no power to please or soothe?
There is not any rest in them or any comfort. Then the One whom we love
better than all His dearest gifts comes and moves the lantern for us, so
that our toys are in the shadow but His face is in the light. And He
makes His face to shine upon us and gives us peace.
"For Thou, O Lord my God, art above all things best; . . . Thou alone
most sufficient and most full; Thou alone most sweet and most
comfortable.
"Thou alone most fair and most loving; Thou alone most noble and most
glorious above all things; in whom all things are at once and perfectly
good, and ever have been and shall be.
"And therefore whatever Thou bestowest upon me beside Thyself, or
whatever Thou revealest or promisest concerning Thyself, so long as I do
not see or fully enjoy Thee, is too little, and fails to satisfy me.
"Because, indeed, my heart cannot truly rest nor be entirely contented
unless it rest in Thee, and rise above all Thy gifts and all things
created.
"When shall I fully recollect myself in Thee, that through the love of
Thee I may not feel myself but Thee alone, above all feeling and measure
in a manner not known to all?"