<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2>
<h3>The Parrot House</h3>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-32.jpg" width-obs="550" height-obs="385" alt="RED LAKE AND HILL. As seen (without the water) from the Taraha Nursery." title="" /> <span class="caption">RED LAKE AND HILL.<br/>As seen (without the water) from the Taraha Nursery.</span> <br/><br/></div>
<div class='cap'>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.</div>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class='poem'>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sleep, baby, sleep!</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thy father guards his sheep,</span><br/>
Thy mother shakes the dreamland-tree<br/>
Down fall the little dreams for thee,<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sleep, baby, sleep!</span><br/>
<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sleep, baby, sleep!</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Our Saviour loves His sheep.</span><br/>
He is the Lamb of God on high,<br/>
Who for our sakes came down to die.<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sleep, baby, sleep!</span><br/></div>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="sidenote">Higher Critics</div>
<p>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?"</p>
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-33.jpg" width-obs="550" height-obs="380" alt="CHILDREN WADING" title="" /> <span class="caption">CHILDREN WADING</span></div>
<p>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 pûchies.
Pûchies are insects. We have one baby who collects pûchies.
"Look!" she said, one morning before prayers, "Deah little
five pûchies!" 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="sidenote">"Watching a Miracle"</div>
<p>They knew, of course, all the flowers, and the discovery
of anything fresh was always followed by a scene which<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-34.jpg" width-obs="550" height-obs="388" alt="CHILDREN WADING." title="" /> <span class="caption">CHILDREN WADING.</span></div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-35.jpg" width-obs="550" height-obs="385" alt="ESLI AND LITTLE KOHILA. Taken a year earlier." title="" /> <span class="caption">ESLI AND LITTLE KOHILA.<br/>Taken a year earlier.</span></div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="sidenote">The Kindness of the Babies</div>
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-36.jpg" width-obs="550" height-obs="387" alt="PREETHA AWARE OF A FOE. Tara on the left: the Coney on the right." title="" /> <span class="caption">PREETHA AWARE OF A FOE.<br/>Tara on the left: the Coney on the right.</span></div>
<p>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?</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</SPAN></span></p>
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