Sam and Tilly loved the movies. They formed a background of romance to
their prosaic lives. They read, eagerly, all they could find in print
about the stars of moviedom and were well acquainted with the features
of the prominent actors. Twice a week they attended, rain or shine. As
this involved long walks in bad weather they had, with the dawn of
prosperity, invested in a Ford.
It was a windy night in October. There was a threat of rain in the air
as the sullen clouds drifted past over the moon. As they returned to the
car, which had been left in a side street, a tiny muffled wail greeted
them: “Gracious! it’s a cat,” said Tilly. “Good Lord! it’s a baby!” It
was wrapped in an old, frayed, woolen blanket. They took it home—what
else could they do?—and Tilly unwrapped it in her warm room. It was
clean and warm and dry, and its clothing, though of the plainest
material and somewhat worn, was also clean. Tilly declared it was a
darling. She sent Sam for a bottle and some of the best milk, fed the
child and covered her warmly in a large arm chair which was pushed
against the bed so that she might hear the little one move in the night.
Tilly declared the little girl had aristocratic features. She fell
violently in love with her and declared she would not give her up. Sam
smiled and agreed. He seldom opposed Tilly, though he felt somewhat
doubtful of the propriety of keeping the baby. The little one grew
apace. She soon became the central sun of the household about which Sam
and Tilly revolved—two obedient satellites.
The household duties soon became too great for Tilly, and Elizabeth
Tillicum was sent for. Elizabeth was a New Jersey product, redolent of
the hills that border the Delaware. Her hair was sandy—the color of New
Jersey sand. Her eyes were blue—the color of the blue water of the
Atlantic which rolls over the New Jersey sand beaches, though this water
is often green; and her freckles were—just plain brown freckles. I am
not saying Elizabeth was beautiful—she was not. She agreed with
everyone; she was quite unable to contradict; indeed her acquiescence
was almost slavish. In size she was opulent. It seemed doubtful when she
sat down whether some portion of her anatomy might not spill over on the
floor but this never actually happened. With all her disposition to
conciliate she persisted in moving slowly, and all the alleged work that
she performed was performed at a uniform slow speed. Some critics
averred that she did not work—she lolloped. They said that when she did
do work it was so poorly done that it must first be undone and then done
over again. However this may be, Elizabeth steadfastly, slowly and
pleasantly pushed her way through the world. But she was not a bomb, she
was not even a torpedo.
Very few people can be reformed by preaching at them, object lessons are
more effective. Her own carelessness was well known to Tilly and made
her secretly admire Sam’s precision and half despise Elizabeth’s sloppy
work. The coming of the baby brought a change. Tilly read up on the care
of babies in a volume entitled “The Feeding and Care of Children.” This
learned work explained the overwhelming importance of cleanliness. It
detailed the various minute bugs which lurk in the air, water and soil
ready to seize and carry off the unsuspecting child. From a heedless
maiden, Tilly was rapidly transformed into the veriest martinet,
watching for the least speck of impurity to pounce upon and destroy it.
Everything the baby ate was sterilized, and the bottles, spoons and
plates scalded assiduously. Toward this campaign of cleanliness the baby
herself manifested a cynical indifference. She threw the bottle on the
floor. She drew her spoon through her hair, and after crawling through
all the dirt attainable, rubbed her grimy hands over her half-cleared
plate and then thrust the chubby paws down her throat. Such behaviour
was _anathema maranatha_ and filled Tilly with despair.
Sam was at first far from being charmed by the dirt and disorder which
the child insisted upon, but she soon vanquished him. Her velvet skin,
lovely color and wide open smile would have melted a stone, and Sam soon
became her slave. In return she manifested an ardent preference for his
society; crowed when he came home, howled when he left, insisted on
sitting in his lap, thrust her fingers into his eyes, nose and ears,
pulled his hair and showed not the slightest regard for his privacy or
the ordinary courtesies of life. Sam was reformed in spite of himself.
For the sake of peace he put up with rumpled hair, moist and slimy
kisses and greasy fingerprints on his coat. Such is the mollifying
discipline babies hand around in humanizing their elders.
The naming of the baby had been a dreadful ordeal, and nearly ended in a
rupture between Sam and Tilly.
“We do not know her name,” said Sam, “so we had better give her one
which is merely descriptive; then when her real name is divulged there
will be less temptation to ignore it. I propose to call her Monday
October Jones until we discover her real name. This is descriptive of
the day of the week and the month she came to us.”
“She shall have no such barbarous name,” said Tilly. “You may as well
call her Man Friday at once. I will not have any such name. She is going
to have a pretty name. Monday October Jones: the idea! I shall call her
Arma:
Arma virumque cano
Trojae qui primus ab oris
Don’t you remember that pretty verse Jimmy Case sings?”
Tilly’s words had an air of finality. She had been a bit uncertain
herself until Sam put in an oar. There was another rhyme which sang
through her consciousness making her undecided. It was:
Gaudeamus igitur
Juvenes dum sumus
that she had heard the college boys sing. But on the whole she inclined
toward Arma, for Gaudeamus did not sound like a female. So the baby was
named Arma Virumque Jones.
Arma was a romantic little soul. She thirsted for the unusual and
wonderful. As she grew to girlhood she invested those dear to her with
imaginary virtues. Tilly was a lovely and stately lady and Sam the
personification of all that was noble and good. She was a beautiful
girl, with curly brown hair and a clean mind. With her twelfth birthday
began her affairs of the heart. Her first flame was a beautiful Italian
boy who dwelt in an old house in the alley. This flame was quenched when
she encountered him after he had consumed a larger ration of garlic than
was usual. The next conflagration was started by the grocer’s boy, but
this was quenched when she overheard him swear. This was followed by a
passion for a young and rather dull divine who never dreamed of his
conquest, so that it died of inanition.