The Howler
PICKLES and Puck at their worst and both together are nothing to the
Howler in her separate capacity. We called her the Howler because she
howled.
We heard of her first through our good Pakium, who, during a pilgrimage
round the district, paid a visit to the family of which she was the
youngest member. "She lay in her cradle asleep"--Pakium kindled over
it--"like an innocent little flower, and she once opened her eyes--such
eyes!--and smiled up in my face. Oh, like a flower is the babe!" And
much speech followed, till we pictured a tender, flower-like baby, all
sweetness and smiles.
Her story was such as to suggest fears, though on the surface things
looked safe. Her grandfather, a fine old man, head of the house, was
sheltering the baby and her mother and three other children; for the
son-in-law had "gone to Colombo," which in this case meant he desired to
be free from the responsibilities of wife and family. He had left no
address, and had not written after his departure. So the old man had the
five on his hands. A Temple woman belonging to a famous South-country
Temple, knowing the circumstances, had made a flattering offer for the
baby, then just three months old. The grandfather had refused; but the
grandmother was religious, and she felt the pinch of the extra five, and
secretly influenced her daughter, so that it was probable the Temple
woman would win if she waited long enough. And Temple women know how to
wait.
[Illustration: THE DOHNAVUR COUNTRY IN FLOOD.]
A year passed quietly. We had friends on the watch, and they kept us
informed of what was going on. The idea of dedication was becoming
gradually familiar to the grandfather, and he was ill and times were
hard. But still we could do nothing, for to himself and his whole clan
adoption by Christians was a far more unpleasant alternative than
Temple-dedication. After all, the Temple people never break caste.
Once a message reached us: "Send at once, for the Temple women are about
to get the baby"; and we sent, but in vain. A few weeks later a similar
message reached us; and again the long journey was made, and again there
was the disappointing return empty-handed. It seemed useless to try any
more.
About that time a comrade in North Africa, Miss Lilias Trotter, sent us
her new little booklet, "The Glory of the Impossible." As we read the
first few paragraphs and roughly translated them for our Tamil
fellow-workers, such a hope was created within us that we laid hold with
fresh faith and a sort of quiet, confident joy. And yet, when we wrote
to our friends who were watching, their answer was most discouraging.
The only bright word in the letter was the word "Impossible."
"Far up in the Alpine hollows, year by year, God works one of His
marvels. The snow-patches lie there, frozen into ice at their edges from
the strife of sunny days and frosty nights; and through that ice-crust
come, unscathed, flowers in full bloom.
"Back in the days of the bygone summer the little soldanella plant
spread its leaves wide and flat on the ground to drink in the
sun-rays; and it kept them stored in the root through the winter. Then
spring came and stirred its pulses even below the snow-shroud. And as it
sprouted, warmth was given out in such strange measure that it thawed a
little dome of the snow above its head. Higher and higher it grew, and
always above it rose the bell of air till the flower-bud formed safely
within it; and at last the icy covering of the air-bell gave way and let
the blossom through into the sunshine, the crystalline texture of its
mauve petals sparkling like the snow itself, as if it bore the traces of
the fight through which it had come.
"And the fragile things ring an echo in our hearts that none of the
jewel-like flowers nestled in the warm turf on the slopes below could
waken. We love to see the impossible done, and so does God."
These were the sentences which we read together. To the South Indian
imagination Alpine snow is something quite inconceivable; but the
picture on the cover and snow-scene photographs helped, and the Indian
mind is ever quick to apprehend the spiritual, so the booklet did its
work.
We have two seasons here, the wet and the dry. The dry is subdivided
into hot, hotter, and hottest; but the wet stands alone. It is a time
when the country round Dohnavur is swamp or lake according to the level
of the ground; and we do not expect visitors--the heavy bullock-carts
sink in the mud and make the way too difficult. If a letter had come
just then asking us to send for the baby, we should certainly have tried
to go; but no letter came, and it was then, when everything said,
"Impossible," that suddenly all resistance gave way and the grandfather
said: "Let her go to the Christians."
[Illustration: PAKIUM AND NAVEENA.]
We were sitting round the dinner-table one wet evening, thinking of
nothing more exciting than the flying and creeping creatures which
insisted upon drowning themselves in our soup, when the jingle of
bullock-bells made us look at each other incredulously; and then,
without waiting to wonder who it was, we all ran out and met Rukma
running in from the wet darkness. "It's it! it's it!" she cried, and
danced into the dining-room, decorum thrown to the pools in the
compound. "Look at it!" and we saw a bundle in her arms. And it howled.
From that day on for nearly a week it continued consistently to howl. We
called the little thing Naveena, for the name means "new"; and it was
our nearest approach to Soldanella, which we should have called her if
we did not keep to Indian names for our babies. New and fresh as that
little flower of joy, so was our new little gift to us, a new token for
good. But flowers and howlers--the words draw their little skirts aside
and refuse to touch each other. From certain points of view, in this
case as so often, the sublime and the ridiculous were much too close
together. The very crows made remarks about the baby when she wakened
the morning with her howls. Mercifully for the family's nerves she fell
asleep at noon; but as soon as she woke she began again, and went on
till both she and we were exhausted. There were no tears, the big dark
eyes were only entirely defiant; and the baby stood straight up with her
hands behind her back and her mouth open--that was all. But we knew it
meant pure misery, though expressed so very aggressively; and we coaxed
and petted when she would allow us, and won her confidence at last, and
then she stopped.
It took months to tame the little thing. She had been allowed to do
exactly as she liked; for she was her grandfather's pet, and no one
might cross her will. We had to go very gently; but eventually she
understood and became a dear little girl, reserved but very
affectionate, and scampish to such a degree that Chellalu, discerning a
congenial spirit, decided to adopt her as "her friend."
This fact was announced to us at the babies' Bible-class, when the word
"friend," which was new to the babies, was being explained. It has four
syllables in Tamil, and the babies love four-syllabled words. They were
rolling this juicy morsel under their tongues with sounds of
appreciation, when Chellalu pointed across to Naveena, and with an air
of possession remarked, "_She_ is my friend." The other babies nodded
their heads, "Yes, Naveena is Chellalu's friend!" Naveena looked
flattered and very pleased.
These friends in a kindergarten class are rather terrible. They are
always separated--as the Tamil would say, if one sits north the other
sits south--but even so there are means of communication. This morning,
passing the door of the kindergarten room, I looked in and saw something
not included in the time-table. We have a little yellow bellflower here
which grows in great profusion; and some vandal taught the babies to
blow it up like a little balloon, and then snap it on the forehead. The
crack it makes is delightful. We do not like this game, and try to teach
the babies to respect the pretty flowers; but there are so many sins in
the world, that we do not make another by actually forbidding it; we
trust to time and sense and good feeling to help us. So it comes to pass
that the worst scamps indulge in this game without feeling too guilty;
and now I saw Chellalu with a handful of the flowers, cracking them at
intervals, to the distraction of the teacher and the delight of all the
class. One other was cracking flowers too. It was Naveena, and there was
a method in her cracks. When Rukma turned to Chellalu, Naveena cracked
her flower. When she turned to Naveena, then Chellalu cracked hers. How
they had eluded the search which precedes admission to the kindergarten
nobody knew; but there they were, each with a goodly handful of bells.
At a word from Rukma, however, they handed them over to her with an
indulgent smile, and even offered to search the other babies in case
they had secreted any; and as I left the room the lesson continued as
before, but the friends' intention was evident: they had hoped to be
turned out together.