More Animals
[Illustration: MORE ANIMALS: DEPRESSED.
Nurses: Karuna to left (the Duckling of "Things as They Are"); and
Annamai, to right, Lulla's beloved.]
IN full contrast to Teddy-bear is that floppy child, the Coney. In
Hart's _Animals of the Bible_, there is a picture of this baby, only the
fore-paws should be raised in piteous appeal to be taken up. The Coney
is really a pretty child with pathetic eyes and a grateful smile; but
she was long in learning to walk, and felt aggrieved when we
remonstrated. Her feet, she considered, were created to be ornamental
rather than useful, and no amount of coaxing backed up with massage
could persuade her otherwise. So she was left behind in the march; and
when her contemporaries departed for the middle-aged babies' nursery,
she stayed behind with the infants. And the infants had no pity. They
regarded her as a sort of hassock, large and soft and good to jump on.
More than once we have come into the nursery and found the big, meek
child of three kneeling resignedly under a window upon which an
adventurous eighteen-months wished to climb; and often we have found her
prostrate and patient under the dancing feet of Dimples.
However, the Coney can walk now. This triumph was effected with the help
of an Indianised go-cart, which did what all our persuasions had
entirely failed to do. But the process was not pleasant. The poor Coney
would stand mournfully holding the handle of her instrument of torture,
longing with a yearning unspeakable to sit down and give it up for ever.
Someone would pass, and hope would rise in her heart. She would be
carried now, carried out of sight of that detested go-cart. But no, the
callous-hearted only urged her to proceed. She would howl then with a
howl that told of bitter disappointment. Sometimes she would sit down
flat and regard the thing with a blighting glance, the hatred of a
gentle nature roused to unwonted vehemence. Always her wails accompanied
the rumbling of its wheels.
"The Conies are but a feeble folk, yet they make their houses in the
rocks." One day in deep depression of spirits the Coney arrived at the
kindergarten. She sat down before the threshold, which is three inches
high, and climbed carefully over it. She found herself in a new world,
where babies were doing wonderful things and enjoying all they did. The
Coney decided to join a class, and was offered beads to thread. Life
with beautiful beads to thread became worth living, and it may be in the
course of time that the tortoise will overtake the hare. In any case we
find much cheer in the conclusion of the verse, for if our Coney builds
in the Rock her being rather feeble will not matter very much.
Those who possess that friend of our youth, _Alice_, as illustrated by
Sir John Tenniel, may find the photograph twice reproduced of our fat
Cheshire Cat. This baby is remarkable for two things: she smiles and she
vanishes. The time to see the vanishing conducted with more celerity
than Alice ever saw it, is when the babies' warning call is sounded
across the verandah and a visitor appears in the too near horizon. This
baby then vanishes round the nearest corner. There is nothing left of
her, not even a smile. In fact, the chief contrast between her and the
cat among the foliage is that with our Cat the smile goes first.
Sunday morning, to return to the beginning, is full of possible
misadventure. Sometimes the babies seem to agree among themselves that
it would be well to be good. Then their admiring Sittie and Ammal have
nothing to do but enjoy them. But sometimes it is otherwise. First one
baby pulls her sister's hair, and the other retaliates, till the two get
entangled in each other's curls. Piria Sittie flies to the rescue,
disentangles the combatants and persuades them to make friends.
Meanwhile three restless spirits in bodies to match have crept out
through the open door (it is too hot if we shut the doors), and we find
them comfortably ensconced in forbidden places. The Beetle is a quiet
child. She retires to a corner and looks devout. Presently a sound as of
scraping draws our attention to her. "Beetle! Open your mouth!" Beetle
opens her mouth. It is packed with whitewash off the wall. Then a scared
cry rings through the nursery, and all the babies, imagining awful
things imminent, tumble one on top of the other in a wild rush into
refuge. It is only a large grasshopper which has startled the Cheshire
Cat, whose great eyes are always on the look-out for possible causes of
panic. The grasshopper is banished to the garden and the Cheshire Cat
smiles all over her face. Peace restored, Dimples and the Owlet remember
a dead lizard they found in a corner of the verandah, and set off to
recover it. These two walk exactly like mechanical toys; and as they
strut along hand in hand, or one after the other, they look like
something wound up and going, in a Christmas shop window. Presently they
return with the lizard. Its tail is loose, and they sit down to pull it
off. This is not a nice game, and something else is suggested. Dimple's
mouth grows suddenly square; she wants that lizard's tail.
Then a dear little child called Muff (because she ought to be called
Huff if the name had not been already appropriated), who has been
solemnly munching a watch, decides it is time to demand more individual
attention. She objects to the presence of another baby on her Sittie's
lap. Why should two babies share one lap? The thing is self-evidently
wrong. One lap, one baby, should be the rule in all properly conducted
nurseries. Muff broods over this in silence, then slides off the crowded
lap and sits down disconsolate, alone. Tears come, big sad tears, as
Muff meditates; and it takes time to explain matters and comfort,
without giving in to the one-lap-one-baby theory.
[Illustration: TUBBING.]
We have several helpful babies. Dimples has been discovered paying
required attentions to things smaller than herself; and the Wax Doll
pats the Rosebud if she thinks it will reassure her, when (as rarely
happens) that pet of the family is left stranded on a mat. But Puck is
the most inventive. It was one happy Sunday morning that we came upon
her feeding the Ratlet on her own account. The Ratlet was making
ungrateful remarks; and we hurried across to her and saw that Puck,
under the impression doubtless that any hole would do, was pouring the
milk in a steady stream down the poor infant's nose. Puck smiled up
peacefully. She was sure we would be pleased with her. But the Ratlet
continued eloquent for very many minutes.
Sometimes (but this is an old story now) our difficulties were increased
by the Spider's habit of whimpering, which had a depressing effect upon
the family. This poor baby was a weak little bag of bones when first she
came to us. The bag was made of shrivelled skin of a dusty brown colour.
Her hair was the colour of her skin, and hung about her head like
tattered shreds of a spider's web. She sat in a bunch and never smiled.
Something about her suggested a spider. Her Tamil name is Chrysanthemum,
which by the change of one letter becomes Spider. So we called her
Spider.
At first we were not anxious about her; for such little children pick
up quickly if they are healthy to begin with, as we believed she was.
But she did not respond to the good food and care, and only grew thinner
and more miserable as the weeks passed, till she looked like the first
picture in a series of advertisements of some marvellous patent food,
and we wondered if she would ever grow like the fat and flourishing last
baby of the series. For two months this state of things continued; she
grew more wizened every day; and the uncanny spider-limbs and attitude
gave her the air of not being a human baby at all, but a terrible little
specimen which ought not to be on view but should be hidden safely away
in some private medical place--on a shelf in a bottle of spirits of
wine.
We are asked sometimes if such tiny things can suffer other than
physically. We have reason to think they can. As all else failed, we
took a little girl from school for whom the Spider had an affection, and
let her love her all day long; and almost at once there was a change in
the sad little face of the Spider. She had been cared for by an old
grandfather after her mother's death, and it seemed as if she had
fretted for him and needed someone all to herself to make up for what
she was missing.
This little girl, the Cod-fish by name, was devoted to the Spider. She
nestled her and played with her--or attempted to, I should say, for at
first the Spider almost resented any attempts to play. "She doesn't know
how to smile!" said the Cod-fish disconsolately after a week's petting
and loving had resulted only in fewer whimpers, but not as yet in
smiles. A few days later she came to us, and announced with much
emotion: "She has smiled three times!" Next day the record rose to
seven; after that we left off counting.
The Spider is fat and bonnie now. Her skin is a clear and creamy brown,
and her hair has lost its dustiness; but she still likes to sit crumpled
up, and a small alcove in the kitchen is her favourite haven when tired
of the world. Seen unexpectedly in there, bunched in a tight knot, her
dark, keen little eyes peering out of the light-coloured little face,
she still suggests a spider. But it is a cheerful Spider, which makes
all the difference.