We devoted last week to the life and letters of the Jukes family. 17 Margaret, the mother of criminals, six generations ago, founded a prolific line, and her progeny, mostly in jail, now numbers some twelve hundred. Moral: watch the children with a bad heredity so carefully that none of them can ever have any excuse for growing up into Jukeses.
So now, as soon as we have finished our tea, Sandy and I get out the Doomsday Book, and pore over its pages in an anxious search for alcoholic parents. It’s a cheerful little game to while away the twilight hour after the day’s work is done.
Quelle vie! Come home fast and take me out of it. I’m wearying for the sight of you.
SALLIE.
J. G. H.,
Thursday morning.
My dear Pendleton Family:
I have received your letter, and I seize my pen to stop you. I don’t wish to be relieved. I take it back. I change my mind. The person you are planning to send sounds like an exact twin of Miss Snaith. How can you ask me to turn over my darling children to a kind, but ineffectual, middle-aged lady without any chin? The very thought of it wrings a mother’s heart.
Do you imagine that such a woman can carry on this work even temporarily? No! The manager of an institution like this has got to be young and husky and energetic and forceful and efficient and red-haired and sweet-tempered, like me. Of course I’ve been discontented—anybody would be with things in such a mess,—but it’s what you socialists call a holy discontent. And do you think that I am going to abandon all of the beautiful reforms I have so painstakingly started? No! I am not to be moved from this spot until you find a superintendent superior to Sallie McBride.
That does not mean, though, that I am mortgaging myself forever. Just for the present, until things get on their feet. While the face-washing, airing, reconstructing period lasts, I honestly believe you chose the right person when you hit upon me. I love to plan improvements and order people about.
This is an awfully messy letter, but I’m dashing it off in three minutes in order to catch you before you definitely engage that pleasant, inefficient middle-aged person without a chin.
Please, kind lady and gentleman, don’t do me out of me job! Let me stay a few months longer. Just gimme a chance to show what I’m good for, and I promise you won’t never regret it.
S. MCB.
J. G. H.,
Thursday afternoon.
Dear Judy:
I’ve composed a poem—a pæan of victory.
Robin MacRae
Smiled to-day.
It’s the truth! S. MCB.
THE JOHN GRIER HOME,
April 13.
Dear Judy:
I am gratified to learn that you were gratified to learn that I am going to stay. I hadn’t realized it, but I am really getting sort of attached to orphans.
It’s an awful disappointment that Jervis has business which will keep you South so much longer. I am bursting with talk, and it is such a laborious nuisance having to write everything I want to say.
Of course I am glad that we are to have the building remodeled, and I think all of your ideas good, but I have a few extra good ones myself. It will be nice to have the new gymnasium and sleeping-porches, but, oh, my soul does long for cottages! The more I look into the internal workings of an orphan-asylum, the more I realize that the only type of asylum that can compete with a private family is one on the cottage system. So long as the family is the unit of society, children should be hardened early to family life.
The problem that is keeping me awake at present is, What to do with the children while we are being made over? It is hard to live in a house and build it at the same time. How would it be if I rented a circus tent and pitched it on the lawn?
Also, when we plunge into our alterations, I want a few guest-rooms where our children can come back when ill or out of work. The great secret of our lasting influence in their lives will be our watchful care afterward. What a terribly alone feeling it must give a person not to have a family hovering in the background! With all my dozens of aunts and uncles and mothers and fathers and cousins and brothers and sisters, I can’t visualize it. I’d be terrified and panting if I didn’t have lots of cover to run to. And for these forlorn little mites, somehow or other the John Grier Home must supply their need. So, dear people, send me half a dozen guest-rooms, if you please.
Good-by, and I’m glad you didn’t put in the other woman. The very suggestion of somebody else taking over my own beautiful reforms before they were even started, stirred up all the opposition in me. I’m afraid I’m like Sandy—I canna think aught is dune richt except my ain hand is in’t.
Yours, for the present,
SALLIE MCBRIDE.
THE JOHN GRIER HOME,
Sunday.
Dear Gordon:
I know that I haven’t written lately; you have a perfect right to grumble, but oh dear! oh dear! you can’t imagine what a busy person an orphan-asylum superintendent is. And all the writing energy I possess has to be expended upon that voracious Judy Abbott Pendleton. If three days go by without a letter, she telegraphs to know if the asylum has burned; whereas, if you—nice man—go letterless, you simply send us a present to remind us of your existence. So, you see, it’s distinctly to our advantage to slight you often.
You will probably be annoyed when I tell you that I have promised to stay on here. They finally did find a woman to take my place, but she wasn’t at all the right type and would have answered only temporarily. And, my dear Gordon, it’s true, when I faced saying good-by to this feverish planning and activity, Worcester somehow looked rather colorless. I couldn’t bear to let my asylum go unless I was sure of substituting a life packed equally full of sensation.
I know the alternative you will suggest, but please don’t—just now. I told you before that I must have a few months longer to make up my mind. And in the meantime I like the feeling that I’m of use in the world. There’s something constructive and optimistic about working with children; that is, if you look at it from my cheerful point of view, and not from our Scotch doctor’s. I’ve never seen anybody like that man; he’s always pessimistic and morbid and down. It’s best not to be too intelligent about insanity and dipsomania and all the other hereditary details. I am just about ignorant enough to be light-hearted and effective in a place like this.
The thought of all these little lives expanding in every direction eternally thrills me; there are so many possibilities in our child garden for every kind of flower. It has been planted rather promiscuously, to be sure, but though we undoubtedly shall gather a number of weeds, we are also hoping for some rare and beautiful blossoms. Am I not growing sentimental? It is due to hunger—and there goes the dinner-gong! We are going to have a delicious meal: roast beef and creamed carrots and beet greens, with rhubarb pie for dessert. Would you not like to dine with me? I should love to have you.
Most cordially yours, S. MCB.
P.S. You should see the number of poor homeless cats that these children want to adopt. We had four when I came, and they have all had kittens since. I haven’t taken an exact census, but I think the institution possesses nineteen.
April 15.
My dear Judy:
You’d like to make another slight donation to the J. G. H. out of the excess of last month’s allowance? Bene! Will you kindly have the following inserted in all low-class metropolitan dailies:
NOTICE!
To Parents Planning to Abandon their Children:
Please do it before they have reached their third year.
I can’t think of any action on the part of abandoning parents that would help us more effectually. This having to root up evil before you begin planting good is slow, discouraging work.
We have one child here who has almost floored me; but I will not acknowledge myself beaten by a child of five. He alternates between sullen moroseness, when he won’t speak a word, and the most violent outbursts of temper, when he smashes everything within reach. He has been here on
ly three months, and in that time he has destroyed nearly every piece of bric-à-brac in the institution—not, by the way, a great loss to art.
A month or so before I came he pulled the table-cloth from the officers’ table while the girl in charge was in the corridor sounding the gong. The soup had already been served. You can imagine the mess! Mrs. Lippett half killed the child on that occasion, but the killing did nothing to lessen the temper, which was handed on to me intact.
His father was Italian and his mother Irish; he has red hair and freckles from County Cork and the most beautiful brown eyes that ever came out of Naples. After the father was stabbed in a fight and the mother had died of alcoholism, the poor little chap by some chance or other got to us; I suspect that he belongs in the Catholic Protectory. As for his manners—oh dear! oh dear! They are what you would expect. He kicks and bites and swears. I have dubbed him Punch.18
Yesterday he was brought squirming and howling to my office, charged with having knocked down a little girl and robbed her of her doll. Miss Snaith plumped him into a chair behind me, and left him to grow quiet, while I went on with my writing. I was suddenly startled by an awful crash. He had pushed that big green jardinière off the window-sill and broken it into five hundred pieces. I jumped with a suddenness that swept the ink-bottle to the floor, and when Punch saw that second catastrophe, he stopped roaring with rage and threw back his head and roared with laughter. The child is diabolical.
I have determined to try a new method of discipline that I don’t believe in the whole of his forlorn little life he has ever experienced. I am going to see what praise and encouragement and love will do. So, instead of scolding him about the jardinière, I assumed that it was an accident. I kissed him and told him not to feel bad; that I didn’t mind in the least. It shocked him into being quiet; he simply held his breath and stared while I wiped away his tears and sopped up the ink.
The child just now is the biggest problem that the J. G. H. affords. He needs the most patient, loving, individual care—a proper mother and father, likewise some brothers and sisters and a grandmother. But I can’t place him in a respectable family until I make over his language and his propensity to break things. I separated him from the other children, and kept him in my room all the morning, Jane having removed to safe heights all destructible objets d’art. Fortunately, he loves to draw, and he sat on a rug for two hours, and occupied himself with colored pencils. He was so surprised when I showed an interest in a red-and-green ferry-boat, with a yellow flag floating from the mast, that he became quite profanely affable. Until then I couldn’t get a word out of him.
In the afternoon Dr. MacRae dropped in and admired the ferry-boat, while Punch swelled with the pride of creation. Then, as a reward for being such a good little boy, the doctor took him out in his automobile on a visit to a country patient.
Punch was restored to the fold at five o’clock by a sadder and wiser doctor. At a sedate country estate he had stoned the chickens, smashed a cold frame, and swung the pet Angora cat by its tail. Then when the sweet old lady tried to make him be kind to poor pussy, he told her to go to hell.
I can’t bear to consider what some of these children have seen and experienced. It will take years of sunshine and happiness and love to eradicate the dreadful memories that they have stored up in the far-back corners of their little brains. And there are so many children and so few of us that we can’t hug them enough; we simply haven’t arms or laps to go around.
Mais parlons d’autres choses!19 Those awful questions of heredity and environment that the doctor broods over so constantly are getting into my blood, too; and it’s a vicious habit. If a person is to be of any use in a place like this, she must see nothing but good in the world. Optimism is the only wear for a social worker.
“’T is the middle of night by the castle clock”—do you know where that beautiful line of poetry comes from? “Cristabel,”20 of English K. Mercy! how I hated that course! You, being an English shark, liked it; but I never understood a word that was said from the time I entered the class-room till I left it. However, the remark with which I opened this paragraph is true. It is the middle of night by the mantel-piece clock, so I’ll wish you pleasant dreams.
Addio!
SALLIE.
Tuesday.
Dear Enemy:
You doctored the whole house, then stalked past my library with your nose in the air, while I was waiting tea with a plate of Scotch scones sitting on the trivet, ordered expressly for you as a peace-offering.
If you really hurt, I will read the Kallikak book;21 but I must tell you that you are working me to death. It takes almost all of my energy to be an effective superintendent, and this university-extension course that you are conducting I find wearing. You remember how indignant you were one day last week because I confessed to having stayed up until one o’clock the night before? Well, my dear man, if I were to accomplish all the vicarious reading you require, I should sit up until morning every night.
However, bring it in. I usually manage half an hour of recreation after dinner, and though I had wanted to glance at Wells’s latest novel,22 I will amuse myself instead with your feeble-minded family.
Life of late is unco steep.
Obligingly yours, S. MCB.
THE JOHN GRIER HOME,
April 17.
Dear Gordon:
Thank you for the tulips, likewise the lilies of the valley. They are most becoming to my blue Persian bowls.
Have you ever heard of the Kallikaks? Get the book and read them up. They are a two-branch family in New Jersey, I think, though their real name and origin is artfully concealed. But, anyway,—and this is true,—six generations ago a young gentleman, called for convenience Martin Kallikak, got drunk one night and temporarily eloped with a feeble-minded bar-maid, thus founding a long line of feeble-minded Kallikaks,—drunkards, gamblers, prostitutes, horse thieves—a scourge to New Jersey and surrounding States.
Martin later straightened up, married a normal woman, and founded a second line of proper Kallikaks,—judges, doctors, farmers, professors, politicians,—a credit to their country. And there the two branches still are, flourishing side by side. You can see what a blessing it would have been to New Jersey if something drastic had happened to that feeble-minded bar-maid in her infancy.
It seems that feeble-mindedness is a very hereditary quality, and science isn’t able to overcome it. No operation has been discovered for introducing brains into the head of a child who didn’t start with them. And the child grows up with, say, a nine-year brain in a thirty-year body, and becomes an easy tool for any criminal he meets. Our prisons are one-third full of feeble-minded convicts. Society ought to segregate them on feeble-minded farms, where they can earn their living in peaceful menial pursuits, and not have children. Then in a generation or so we might be able to wipe them out.
Did you know all that? It’s very necessary information for a politician to have. Get the book and read it, please; I’d send my copy only that it’s borrowed.
It’s also very necessary information for me to have. There are eleven of these chicks that I suspect a bit, and I am sure of Loretta Higgins. I have been trying for a month to introduce one or two basic ideas into that child’s brain, and now I know what the trouble is: her head is filled with a sort of soft cheesy substance instead of brain.
I came up here to make over this asylum in such little details as fresh air and food and clothes and sunshine, but, heavens! you can see what problems I am facing. I’ve got to make over society first, so that it won’t send me sub-normal children to work with. Excuse all this excited conversation; but I’ve just met up with the subject of feeble-mindedness, and it’s appalling—and interesting. It is your business as a legislator to make laws that will remove it from the world. Please attend to this immediately.
And oblige,
S. MCBRIDE,
SUP’T JOHN GRIER HOME.
Friday.
Dear Man of Science:
/> You didn’t come to-day. Please don’t skip us tomorrow. I have finished the Kallikak family and I am bursting with talk. Don’t you think we ought to have a psychologist examine these children? We owe it to adopting parents not to saddle them with feeble-minded offspring.
You know, I’m tempted to ask you to prescribe arsenic for Loretta’s cold. I’ve diagnosed her case; she’s a Kallikak. Is it right to let her grow up and found a line of 378 feeble-minded people for society to care for? Oh dear! I do hate to poison the child, but what can I do?
S. McB.
Dear Gordon:
You aren’t interested in feeble-minded people, and you are shocked because I am? Well, I am equally shocked because you are not. If you aren’t interested in everything of the sort that there unfortunately is in this world, how can you make wise laws? You can’t.
However, at your request, I will converse upon a less morbid subject. I’ve just bought fifty yards of blue and rose and green and corn-colored hair-ribbon as an Easter present for my fifty little daughters. I am also thinking of sending you an Easter present. How would a nice fluffy little kitten please you? I can offer any of the following patterns:—
Number 3 comes in any color, gray, black, or yellow. If you will let me know which you would rather have, I will express it at once.