The Parrot House
[Illustration: RED LAKE AND HILL.
As seen (without the water) from the Taraha Nursery.]
THE time to see the Taraha nursery at its best is between late evening
and early morning, and again about noon. It is perfectly peaceful then.
Thirty mats are spread upon the floor. Thirty babies are strewn upon the
mats. All the thirty are asleep. A sleeping baby is good. Thirty babies
all good at once is something we cannot promise at any other hour.
Shading your lantern, and walking carefully so as not to tread on more
scattered limbs than may be, you wander round the nursery and meditate
upon the beautiful ways of childhood. There is something so touching in
sleeping innocence, and you are touched. Here two chubby babies are
lying locked in each other's arms. You have to look twice before you see
which limbs belong to which. There another is hugging a doll minus its
head. Next to her a baby sleeps pillowed on another, and the other does
not mind. In the middle of the floor, far from her mat, a sturdy
three-year-old sprawls content. You pick her up gently and lay her on
her mat. With an expression of determined resolution the baby rolls off
again; and if you attempt another remove, an ominous pucker of the
forehead warns you to desist. You wonder if the babies are quite as
good as they seem. One of the dear, fat, devoted little pair you
noticed at first, stirs, disentangles herself from her neighbour, and
gives her a slight kick. There is a smothered, sleepy howl, and the kick
is returned. "Water!" wails the first fat baby. "Water!" wails the
second. You get water, give it, pat both fat babies till they go to
sleep, and then cautiously retire. It would be a pity if all the babies
were to waken thirsty and kick each other. At the door you turn and look
back. Graceful babies, clumsy babies, babies who lie extended like young
pokers, babies curled like kittens. All sorts of babies, good, bad, and
middling, but all blessedly asleep.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy father guards his sheep,
Thy mother shakes the dreamland-tree
Down fall the little dreams for thee,
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Our Saviour loves His sheep.
He is the Lamb of God on high,
Who for our sakes came down to die.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
The pretty German lullaby rises unbidden, and is pushed away by the
quick, sad thoughts that will not listen to it. For under all the
laughter and nursery frolic and happiness, we cannot but remember why
these little ones are here. Round about the compound in a great triangle
there are three Temple towers. They are out of sight though near us, but
we cannot forget they are there. They stand for that which deprives
these children of their birthright. Oh for the day when those Temple
towers will fall and the reign of righteousness begin! There was a time
when it seemed impossible to desire that the fire should be allowed to
touch the stately and beautiful things of the world. Now there is
something that satisfies as nothing else could in the vision of that
purifying fire; and the promise that stands out like a light in the
darkness is that which tells that the Son of Man shall send forth His
angels, and they shall gather out of His kingdom, all things that
offend.
In the tiny babies' nursery many a crooning Indian lullaby is sung
to the babies in their swinging white cradles; but in the Taraha
nursery we sing sweet old hymns, in Tamil and English, and then all
sensible people are supposed to go to sleep. But one evening after
the singing, two little tots settled down for a talk. Said one lying
comfortably on her back with her two hands clasped behind her head:
"Who takes care of us at night when we all go to sleep?" Said the
other in a mixture of Tamil and English: "Jesus-tender-Shepherd takes
care of us--Jesus-loves-me-this-I-know." The first baby rolled over upon
her small sister with a crow of derision. "It is not! It is Accal! I
woke one night and saw her!" The other baby insisted she was making a
mistake. "Accal sleeps, all people sleep; they lie down like us and go
to sleep. Only Jesus stays awake, and never, never goes to sleep."
"Never, never?" questioned the first, and was quiet for a minute
considering the matter; then with a sceptical little laugh, "Did you
ever wake up and see Him?"
If the babies were always in a state of calm repose, the Taraha's pet
name, Parrot-house, would be inappropriate: but for nearly ten hours of
the day they are awake and talkative. Talk, however, is a mild word by
which to describe their powers of conversation. Sometimes we wonder if
they never tire of chattering, and then we remember they have only
lately learned to talk. They have not had time to tire.
[Illustration: CHILDREN WADING]
Once we listened, hoping that the trailing clouds of glory so recently
departed had left some trace of illumination in this their first
expression in earth's language of their feelings and emotions. But we
found them very mundane. Most of the conversation concerned their
"saman," a comprehensive Indian word used by people with limited
vocabularies to express all manner of things to play with. Their "saman"
was various. Dolls, of course, and the remnants of dolls; tins and the
lids thereof; bits of everything which could break; corks, stones,
seeds, half cocoa-nut shells; rags of many ages and colours; scraped
down morsels of brick; withered flowers and leaves; sticks of all sorts
and sizes; English Christmas cards, sometimes with much domestic
information on the back; unauthorised sundries from the
kindergarten--delivered up with a smile intended to assure you that they
were only being kept for Sittie; and puchies. Puchies are insects. We
have one baby who collects puchies. "Look!" she said, one morning before
prayers, "Deah little five puchies!" and she opened her hand and five
red and black beetles crawled slowly out, to the delight of the devout,
who scrambled up from their orderly rows with shrieks of appreciation.
But if the babies' conversation was unenlightening, their chosen
avocations are not uninteresting. They are always busy about something,
and, from their point of view, something important. There are, of
course, some among the thirty who are unimaginative and unenterprising.
These sit in the sand and play. Others have more to do. Life to them is
full of the unknown. The unknown is full of possibilities. The great
thing is to experiment. Nothing is too insignificant to explore, and all
five senses are useful to the thoroughly competent baby.
They knew, of course, all the flowers, and the discovery of anything
fresh was always followed by a scene which suggested a colony of
small and active ants hauling some large object to their nest; for the
nearest grown-up person was invariably hailed, and pulled, and pushed,
and hurried along till the "new flower" was reached. Then, if the object
was incautious enough to stoop down to examine it, the ants, ant-wise,
would envelope it, climbing, swarming all over it, till there was
nothing to be seen but ants.
[Illustration: CHILDREN WADING.]
They knew the habits of caterpillars, and especially they had knowledge
about the wonderful silver chrysalis which pins itself to the pointed
leaves of the oleander. They knew what was packed up inside, and some
with wide-open eyes had watched the miracle slowly evolving as the
butterfly unpacked itself, and sunned its crumpled velvet wings, till
the crumples smoothed, and the wings dried, and the butterfly fluttered
away. They knew, too, the less approachable ways of the wild bees, and
where they hive, and what happens if they are disturbed; and they knew
the private feelings of calves, and which likes to be treated as a
brother and which resents such liberties. Crows they knew intimately,
and squirrels a little; for infants fallen from their nests have often
been taken care of, much against their foolish wills, until old enough
to look after themselves. Their namesakes, the parrots, they knew very
well; and the dainty little sunbirds that flash from flower to flower
like little living jewels in the sunlight; and the clever tailor-bird,
which sews its own nest, knotting its thread like a grown-up human
being; and the wise leaf-insect that can hardly be found till it moves;
and the great, green, frisky grasshopper that seems to invite a chase.
We found they knew, alas, too much about the misuse of everything
growing in the field! The tamarind fruit makes condiment, but eaten raw
it gives fever; and the babies think we are wrong here, and they are
fond of forgetting our rules. Many kinds of grasses are very good to
eat; and here again we are mistaken, for we know not the flavour of
grasses. Seeds may be useful to plant; but those who think their use
ends there, are short-sighted and ignorant people. Upon these and other
matters the babies feel we have much to learn.
[Illustration: ESLI AND LITTLE KOHILA.
Taken a year earlier.]
One weird joy has been theirs, and they never will forget it. For one
whole blissful afternoon they followed the snake-charmer about at a
respectful distance; and they cannot understand why we are not anxious
they should dance as he danced, and pipe as he piped, round the hopeful
holes they discover in the red mud walls.
Other things they had learned to do, not wholly innocent. They must have
made friends with the masons who built their new nursery, and persuaded
them to do their work in a sympathetic spirit; for they knew the weak
points hidden from our eyes, and how pleasant it is to scoop mortar out
of cracks between the bricks of the floor. They had learned how most of
their toys were made, and how a doll could be most easily dissected, and
the particular taste of its inside. They knew, too, the lusciousness of
divers sorts of sand--this last, however, being a mixture of crime and
disease, and treated as such, is not a popular sin. Finally, to our
lasting disgrace, they had learned, after a series of thoughtful
experiments, how best to obey a command and yet elude its intention;
thus on a wet day, when they were commanded not to go out, their Sittie
found them lying full length in a long row on the edge of the verandah,
their heads protruding so as to catch the lovely drip from the roof. And
all these things they had carefully learned in spite of a certain amount
of supervision; and, being entirely unsuspicious, they will take you
into their confidence and let you share the forbidden fruit, if you are
so inclined.
But, after all, perfection of goodness would make us more anxious than
even these enormities; we should fear our babies were growing too
good--a fear not pressing at present. The Parrot-house only overwhelms
when the birds begin to sing. Then indeed all who can, flee far away,
for the babies once started are difficult to stop. They are sure you
like it as much as they do, and are anxious to oblige you when you visit
their world. So they sing with the greatest earnestness, and as they
invariably hang on to every available part of you, and punctuate their
melodies with kisses and embraces, escape is not always practicable.
The Taraha nursery was our first substantial building. It is built upon
foundations raised well off the ground, and has a wide verandah. When
first it was opened and the children were invited to take possession,
they did so most completely. One quaint little person of barely three,
called Kohila, whose small, repressed face in the photograph gives no
hint of character, used to stalk up and down the verandah with an air of
proprietorship which left no doubt in any mind as to her opinion on the
subject. Another (sharing the swinging cot with Kohila in the photo) sat
on the top step and smiled encouragingly to visitors. It was nice to be
smiled at, but there was something very condescending in the smile.
Another stood guard over the plants, which grew in pots much bigger than
herself all the way down the verandah. If any presumed to touch them,
she would dart out upon them with an indignant chirrup. For days after
the great event--the opening of the Taraha--small parties waited on
visitors, formed in procession before and behind, and escorted them
round, explaining all mysteries, and insisting upon due admiration.
Everything had to be interviewed, from teaspoons to pots of fern. This
concluded, the guests were politely dismissed, and departed, let us
hope, properly penetrated with a sense of the kindness of the babies.
There have always been some who object to visitors. One of these showed
her objection, not by crying and running away, as undignified babies do,
but by sitting exactly where she was when she first caught sight of the
intruder, and staring straight into space with a very stony stare. A
sensitive visitor could hardly have had the temerity to pass her, but
normal visitors are not sensitive. Sometimes they attempted to make
friends. This was too much. One fat arm would be slowly raised till it
covered the baby's eyes, and in this position she would sit like a small
petrifaction, till the horror had withdrawn.
[Illustration: PREETHA AWARE OF A FOE.
Tara on the left: the Coney on the right.]
This baby, Preetha by name, has in most matters a way of her own. One of
her little peculiarities is a strong preference for solo music as
compared with concert. She listens attentively to others' performances,
then disappears. If followed, she will be found alone in a corner, with
her face to the wall and her back to the world; and if she thinks
herself unobserved, you will be regaled with a solo. This experience is
interesting to the musical. It is never twice alike. Sometimes it is a
succession of sounds, like a tune that has lost its way; sometimes, a
recognisable version of the chorus lately learned. At other times she
delivers her soul in a series of short groans and grunts, beating time
with her podgy hands. If she perceives through the back of her head that
someone is looking or listening, she stops at once; and no persuasions
can ever produce that special rehearsal again. Of late this baby, being
now nearly three, has awakened to a sense of life's responsibilities,
and she evidently wishes to prepare to meet them suitably. Yesterday
evening she came to me with an exceedingly serious face, pointed in the
direction of the kindergarten room, and then tapping herself, remarked:
"Amma! I kindergarten." No more was said; but we know we shall soon see
her solemnly waddling into the schoolroom, and we wonder what will
happen. Will she continue to insist upon a corner to herself?