Pickles and Puck
[Illustration: "PICKLES" AND HER FRIENDS.
"Pickles" sits with her thumb in her mouth, distrustful of
photographers.]
"AMMA! Amma!" then in baby Tamil, "Salala has come!" And one of the most
enticing of the little interruptions to a steady hour's work scrambles
over the raised doorstep, tripping and tumbling in her eagerness to get
in. Now she is staggering happily about the room on fat, uncertain feet.
Upsets are nothing to Sarala. She shakes herself, rubs a bumped head,
smiles if you smile down at her, and picks herself up with a sturdy
independence that promises something for her future. She has travelled
to-day, stopping only to visit her Prema Sittie, a long way across the
field all by herself. She has braved tumbles and captures, for her nurse
may any minute discover her flight; and even now, safe in port, she
keeps a wary eye on the door which opens on the nursery side of the
compound. If she thinks I am about to suggest her departure, she
immediately engages me in some interest of her own. She has ways and
wiles unknown to any baby but herself; and if all seems likely to fail,
she sits down on the floor, and first puts out her lower lip as far as
it will go, and then springs up, climbs over you, clings with all four
limbs at once, and buries her curly tangle deep into your neck. But if
the case is hopeless, she sits down on the floor again and digs her
small fists into her eyes, in silent indignation and despair. Then
comes a howl impossible to smother, and at last such bitter bursts of
woe as nothing short of dire necessity can force you to provoke. This is
Sarala, one of the most affectionate, most wilful, most winsome of all
the babies. She is truthful. She has just this moment pulled a
drawing-pin out of its place, which happened to be within reach, and her
solemn "Aiyo!" (Alas!) "Look, Amma!" shows she feels she has sinned, but
wants to confess. Life will have many a battle for this baby; but surely
if she is truthful and loving, and we are loving and wise, the Lord who
has redeemed her will carry her through.
Her first great battle royal was with the new Sittie,[B] who immediately
upon arrival loved the babies. The battle was about Sarala's evening
meal, which she refused to take from the new Sittie because she had
offended her small majesty a few minutes before by allowing another baby
to share the lap of which Sarala wished to have complete possession; and
the baby had crawled off disgusted with the ways of such a Sittie.
As a rule we avoid collisions at bedtime. The day should end peacefully
for babies; but the contest once begun had to be carried through, for
Sarala is not a baby to whom it is wise to give in where a conflict of
wills is concerned. Next morning it was evident she remembered all about
it. When the new Sittie (now called Prema Sittie by the children)[C]
came to the nursery, Sarala hurried off and would have nothing to do
with her. From the distance of the garden she would catch sight of her
advancing form, and retreat round a corner. Sometimes if Prema Sittie
sat down on the floor and fondled another baby, Sarala would crawl up
from behind, put her arms round her neck, and even begin to sit down on
her knee; but if her Sittie made the first advance, she was instantly
repelled. This continued for a fortnight; and as Sarala was only a year
and eight months old at the time, a fortnight's memory rather astonished
us. In the end she forgot, and now there are no more devoted friends
than Prema Sittie and Sarala.
But it was the other Sittie, Piria Sittie by name,[D] who first made
Sarala's acquaintance. She and I went to Neyoor together when the branch
nursery was there; and as the new nursery was almost ready for the
babies, we lightened the immense undertaking of removal by carting off
whatever we could of furniture and infants. Sarala has eyes which can
smile bewitchingly, and a voice which can coo with delicious affection;
but those sweet eyes can look stormy, and cooing is a sound remote from
Sarala's powers in opposite directions; so we wondered, as we packed her
into the bandy, what would happen that night. If we had known Sarala
better we should not have wondered. All this child wants to make her
good is someone to hold on to. She woke frequently during the night, for
we were not entirely comfortable, wedged sideways and close as herrings
in a barrel. But all she did when she awoke was to push a soft little
arm round either one or other of us, and cuddle as close as she possibly
could; the least movement on our part, however, she deeply resented and
feared. A limpet on a rock is nothing to this baby. Her very toes can
cling.
Sarala's private name is Pickles. Her twin in mischief is Puck, and she,
too, is fond of paying visits to the bungalow. But she always comes as a
surprise; she never announces herself. You are busy with your back to
the door when that curious feeling, a sense of not being quite alone,
comes over you, and you turn and see an elfish thing, very still and
small and shy, but with eyes so comical that Puck is the only possible
name by which she could be called. Seen unexpectedly, playing among the
flowers in a fragment of green garment washed to the softness of a
tulip leaf, you feel she only needs a pair of small wings and a wand to
be entirely in character.
Puck has none of Pickles' faults, and a good many of her virtues. She is
a most good-tempered little person, loving to be loved, but equally
delighted that others should share the petting. She gives up to
everybody, and smiles her way through life; such a comical little mouth
it is, to match the comical eyes. All she ever asks with insistence is
somewhere to play. Bereft of room to play, Puck might become
disagreeable, though a disagreeable Puck is something unimaginable.
Yesterday it was needful to keep her in the shade; and as a special
policeman-nurse could not be told off to keep watch over her, she was
tied by a long string to the nursery door. At first she was sorely
distressed; but presently the comic side struck her, and she sat down
and began to tie herself up more securely. If they do such things at all
they should do them better, she seemed to think. And this is Puck all
through. She will find the laugh hidden in things, if she can. Sometimes
in her eagerness to make everybody as happy as she is herself she gets
into serious trouble. She was hardly able to walk when she was
discovered comforting a crying infant by taking a bottle of milk from an
older babe (who, according to her thinking, had had enough) and giving
it to the younger one who seemed to need it more. What the older baby
said is not recorded.
Puck in trouble is a pitiful sight. She tries not to give in to feelings
of depression. She screws her smiling lips tight, twists her face into a
pucker, and shuts her eyes till you only see two slits marked by the
curly eyelashes. But if her emotions are too much for her she gives
herself up to them thoroughly. There is no whining or whimpering or
sulking; she wails with a wail that rivals Pickles' howl. "What an awful
child!" remarked a visitor one morning, in a very shocked tone, as she
went the round of the nurseries and came upon Puck on the floor
abandoned to grief. We wondered if our friend knew how much more awful
most babies are, and we wished the usually charming Puck had chosen some
other moment to disgrace herself and us. But no, there she sat, her two
small fists crushed over her mouth--for we insist that when the babes
feel obliged to cry, they shall smother the sound thereof as much as may
be--and the visitor retired, feeling, doubtless, thankful the awful
child was not hers. But Puck's griefs are of short duration. Ten minutes
later she was climbing the chain from which the swing hangs, trying to
fit her little toes into the links, and laughing, with the tears still
wet on her cheeks, because the chain shook so that she could not climb
it properly, though she tried it valiantly, hand over head, like a
dancing bear on a pole. Puck's Guardian Angel, like Chellalu's, must be
ever in attendance.
FOOTNOTES:
[B] Miss Lucy Ross.
[C] "Prema" means _Beloved_.
[D] Miss Mabel Wade, who joined us November 15, 1907. "Piria," like
"Prema," means _Beloved_.