Friday.
Dear Judy:
Yesterday morning, without the slightest warning, a station hack drove
up to the door and disgorged upon the steps two men, two little boys, a
baby girl, a rocking horse, and a Teddy bear, and then drove off!
The men were artists, and the little ones were children of another
artist, dead three weeks ago. They had brought the mites to us because
they thought "John Grier" sounded solid and respectable, and not like a
public institution. It had never entered their unbusinesslike heads that
any formality is necessary about placing a child in an asylum.
I explained that we were full, but they seemed so stranded and aghast,
that I told them to sit down while I advised them what to do. So the
chicks were sent to the nursery, with a recommendation of bread and
milk, while I listened to their history. Those artists had a fatally
literary touch, or maybe it was just the sound of the baby girl's laugh,
but, anyway, before they had finished, the babes were ours.
Never have I seen a sunnier creature than the little Allegra (we don't
often get such fancy names or such fancy children). She is three years
old, is lisping funny baby talk and bubbling with laughter. The tragedy
she has just emerged from has never touched her. But Don and Clifford,
sturdy little lads of five and seven, are already solemn-eyed and
frightened at the hardness of life.
Their mother was a kindergarten teacher who married an artist on a
capital of enthusiasm and a few tubes of paint. His friends say that he
had talent, but of course he had to throw it away to pay the milkman.
They lived in a haphazard fashion in a rickety old studio, cooking
behind screens, the babies sleeping on shelves.
But there seems to have been a very happy side to it--a great deal of
love and many friends, all more or less poor, but artistic and congenial
and high-thinking. The little lads, in their gentleness and fineness,
show that phase of their upbringing. They have an air which many of
my children, despite all the good manners I can pour into them, will
forever lack.
The mother died in the hospital a few days after Allegra's birth, and
the father struggled on for two years, caring for his brood and painting
like mad--advertisements, anything--to keep a roof over their heads.
He died in St. Vincent's three weeks ago,--overwork, worry, pneumonia.
His friends rallied about the babies, sold such of the studio fittings
as had escaped pawning, paid off the debts, and looked about for the
best asylum they could find. And, Heaven save them! they hit upon us!
Well, I kept the two artists for luncheon,--nice creatures in soft
hats and Windsor ties, and looking pretty frayed themselves,--and then
started them back to New York with the promise that I would give the
little family my most parental attention.
So here they are, one little mite in the nursery, two in the
kindergarten room, four big packing cases full of canvases in the
cellar, and a trunk in the store room with the letters of their
father and mother. And a look in their faces, an intangible spiritual
SOMETHING, that is their heritage.
I can't get them out of my mind. All night long I was planning their
future. The boys are easy. They have already been graduated from
college, Mr. Pendleton assisting, and are pursuing honorable business
careers. But Allegra I don't know about; I can't think what to wish for
the child. Of course the normal thing to wish for any sweet little girl
is that two kind foster parents will come along to take the place of the
real parents that Fate has robbed her of. But in this case it would be
cruel to steal her away from her brothers. Their love for the baby is
pitiful. You see, they have brought her up. The only time I ever hear
them laugh is when she has done something funny.
The poor little fellows miss their father horribly. I found Don, the
five-year-old one, sobbing in his crib last night because he couldn't
say good night to "daddy."
But Allegra is true to her name, the happiest young miss of three I have
ever seen. The poor father managed well by her, and she, little ingrate,
has already forgotten that she has lost him.
Whatever can I do with these little ones? I think and think and think
about them. I can't place them out, and it does seem too awful to bring
them up here; for as good as we are going to be when we get ourselves
made over, still, after all, we are an institution, and our inmates are
just little incubator chicks. They don't get the individual, fussy care
that only an old hen can give.
There is a lot of interesting news that I might have been telling you,
but my new little family has driven everything out of my mind.
Bairns are certain joy, but nae sma' care.
Yours ever,
SALLIE. P.S. Don't forget that you are coming to visit me next week.
P.S. II. The doctor, who is ordinarily so scientific and unsentimental,
has fallen in love with Allegra. He didn't so much as glance at her
tonsils; he simply picked her up in his arms and hugged her. Oh, she is
a little witch! Whatever is to become of her?
June 22. My dear Judy:
I may report that you need no longer worry as to our inadequate fire
protection. The doctor and Mr. Witherspoon have been giving the
matter their gravest attention, and no game yet devised has proved so
entertaining and destructive as our fire drill.
The children all retire to their beds and plunge into alert slumber.
Fire alarm sounds. They spring up and into their shoes, snatch the top
blanket from their beds, wrap it around their imaginary nightclothes,
fall into line, and trot to the hall and stairs.
Our seventeen little tots in the nursery are each in charge of an
Indian, and are bundled out, shrieking with delight. The remaining
Indians, so long as there is no danger of the roof falling, devote
themselves to salvage. On the occasion of our first drill, Percy in
command, the contents of a dozen clothes lockers were dumped into sheets
and hurled out of the windows. I usurped dictatorship just in time to
keep the pillows and mattresses from following. We spent hours resorting
those clothes, while Percy and the doctor, having lost all interest
strolled up to the camp with their pipes.
Our future drills are to be a touch less realistic. However, I am
pleased to tell you that, under the able direction of Fire Chief
Witherspoon, we emptied the building in six minutes and twenty-eight
seconds.
That baby Allegra has fairy blood in her veins. Never did this
institution harbor such a child, barring one that Jervis and I know of.
She has completely subjugated the doctor. Instead of going about his
visits like a sober medical man, he comes down to my library hand in
hand with Allegra, and for half an hour at a time crawls about on a rug,
pretending he's a horse, while the bonnie wee lassie sits on his back
and kicks. You know, I am thinking of putting a card in the paper:
Characters neatly remodeled. S. McBride.
Sandy dropped in two nights ago to have a bit of conversation with Betsy
and me, and he was FRIVOLOUS. He made three jokes, and he sat down at
the piano and sang some old Scotch, "My luve's like a red, red rose,"
and "Come under my plaidie," and "Wha's at the window? Wha? Wha?" not in
the least educational, and then danced a few steps of the strathspey!
I sat and beamed upon my handiwork, for it's true, I've done it all
through my frivolous example and the books I've given him and the
introducing of such lightsome companions as Jimmie and Percy and Gordon
Hallock. If I have a few more months in which to work, I shall get the
man human. He has given up purple ties, and at my tactful suggestion has
adopted a suit of gray. You have no idea how it sets him off. He will
be quite distinguished looking as soon as I can make him stop carrying
bulgy things in his pockets.
Good-by; and remember that we're expecting you on Friday.