The Children’s Hour
nnORRENCE, the American poet, in verses entitled J- “The Conclusion of the Whole Matter,” thus sums things up:
“In this rough field of earthly life
I have reaped cause for tears enough;
Yet after all I think I’ve gleaned
My modicum of laughing stuff.”
Those of us who are allowed to live sometimes in the children’s world find plenty of laughing stuff there. Only it is not the sort of stuff which can be packed up and sent anywhere.
From five o’clock till sunset is the children’s hour. Their playground lies to the west, with the mountains in view, and a great expanse of sky. Here the happy little people play to their heart’s content; and, as a grateful small girl put it, “Nobody says ‘Be quiet.’”
Sometimes, but rarely, they are quiet. “Hush” (literally Breathe not!): “we have found a little birdling, and it is so homesick!” This quiets everybody; there is an eager crowding round the fortunate finder, and a dozen little hands are stretched out to stroke the “homesick” little bird. Sick birds and strayed birds are our most usual pets. We have not the heart to shut up wild things in cages, except when they are invalided or too young to fend for themselves. When they are considered well enough or old enough to be set at liberty, there is general jubilation. But, alas! the little sunbird that has licked honey for a fortnight from affectionate fingers is apt to acquire too trustful a disposition for life in a world infested by hard pressed pariah dogs. “The babies are our longest lasting pets,” one small mourner was heard confiding to another after the tragic deaths of several little favourites; “I am glad there is no wild beast that wants to eat them up.” Animals would be much to the fore if only we could suitably have them. “When I am grown up,” said one, undaunted by accidents, “I shall have twenty dogs and twenty cats, and they shall play with each other.” Ten minutes after she had made this announcement I found her chuckling to herself, as with a child’s vivid imagination she surveyed the diverting prospect.
In India we have various round games, graceful and quaint in their way, but these grow monotonous, and then romps are the order of the day. Rukma (Radiance) is a born mimic, and as Indian life lends itself to caricature she has a fair field for her activities. Games are devised which would puzzle a Western. One of these includes an elephant- made of slatey-blue raiment and children fastened together. This creature, with a bell, which tinkles in an agitated manner at every step, hung round its neck, stalks about the playground, waving his trunk hungrily in the direction of the younger juveniles, who never tire of the charming horror of it. The joy of being allowed to shriek as the alarming shape approaches never seems to pall. “For when you make a very tremendous noise, you get a lovely fearful feeling,” was the lucid explanation offered for the delirious rout.
Occasionally the dolls, who for the most part live in boxes, are produced and hung in cradles swung from the trees. The effect of a dozen or so of these little hammocks, made of bits over from their own little garments, is very comical. Houses are arranged for the sleepers, to be ready when they wake. These houses follow the bungalow type. There is a central room “for food and meetings,” and two bedrooms, one on each side. There is a verandah, with steps, and a curl meant for decorative architecture finishes either side of the steps. The kitchen, Indian fashion, is at a little distance. As all this is made of mud, patted into shape, on the raised model plan, with very low walls and spaces for doors, you may easily make a mistake and overlook the walls when invited to pay a visit. Nothing more offends the general sense of propriety. “You have stepped over the wall. That is wall. The door is on the other side. Please come in by the door.”
Grown-up people, though so stupid, have some redeeming features. It is they who give the dolls. Also they kindly mend them when, as often happens, limbs come off. Here, judging by previous experience, one would expect a great display of sympathy with the sorely injured treasure. There is nothing of the sort. Strong common sense comes to the rescue, and the most heroic operative measures are regarded with perfect “IS SHE A DIFFERENT SPECIES?” 263
equanimity. The maternal mind thus disengaged has time to moralise. “Are you mending my doll’s leg to the glory of God?” was a question put to Mrs. Walker one day, when, seeing a better way to repair the damage, she unpicked her first attempt and began again. I was told about it afterwards: “The Ammal did it beautifully at first. I would not have unpicked it. I think she must truly have been mending my doll’s leg to the glory of God.”
There is a feeling among white people that brown people always admire them. This is a delusion. They do admire our colour, and an ivory-skinned child will be described as “like a white person’s child,” but they do not always admire our behaviour, and they are extremely observant. “Is she a different species?” was the question suggested by close observation of a lady in the train whose travelling manners were not of the finest. “She is not like the Animals I know,” and an extensive list was enumerated. “Is she a real Ammal, or is she a different species?”
Anything like condescension is at once detected and severely criticised. “Oh yes, perhaps she is very nice. But she looked so” — and an all too faithful reproduction of the air of languid interest, or distant kindness, follows. “Now So-and-so,” naming another visitor, “was different. She is our friend. Amma, what made the difference at the first?” — a question striking at the difficult root of things. But the Indian mind, though critical enough, is very charitable. “Perhaps she couldn’t help being so, being made so “; this being a kindly conclusion, satisfied everybody.
New light on old texts might be the safe and sober title to a chapterful of sundries. “Do you know about the devil’s beginning?” This was Leela to the Firefly, whose eager “Tell me, Leela!” started Leela at a trot. The idea behind the story poured forth was evidently a Tamil reception, such as occurs on New Year’s Day and other special occasions, when chairs are placed for us, and we have to sit and be feted. The chief entertainment is singing. The village, or as much of it as can find room, swarms in round us, and sings vigorously. The children contrive to squeeze themselves beside us between the chairs, or to climb into our laps, and so receive the reflected glory of the feting. Sometimes we have as many as a dozen such receptions in one day, for outside villages come in turn. Such days, the children would tell you, are very glorious.
“In the beginning,” began Leela in unctuous tones, “the bad devil was good. He was an angel. He lived in heaven. One day all the angels came to sing to God. Then the devil was angry. He got angrier and angrier. He was very rude to God.” Here Leela seemed to freeze all over, and her voice sounded quite deep and awful. Irreverence was far from her intention. “That bad, bad devil said: ‘I won’t stand before God’s chair any more, and I won’t sing to God any more. / want to sit in God’s chair, and make God sing to me!” There was a perfectly horrified pause, as the enormity of the transgression became evident. “So God took him, and tumbled him down out of heaven, and he was turned into the devil.”
There was another solemn pause, then Leela continued cheerfully, “And we each have a little devil; he “So HE GIVES us BOTH” 265
says, ‘Tell lies, steal, be cross.’ And we each have a little Angel; he says, ‘Don’t tell lies, don’t steal, don’t be cross.’ That devil is a nasty little devil.” “Which is more necessary,” inquired the practical Firefly of the Elf who just then appeared, “our little Angel, or our Animal?” (“mother”). “Well,” returned the Elf impartially, “I think both are necessary. Our little Angel is very important; he looks at God’s face for us. But then Jesus knows we couldn’t do without a mother. So He gives us both.” There was a vehement raid upon me, and the book which was considered too absorbing was triumphantly carried off. “It was nice and kind of Jesus,” said little Leela in cooing tones; “when I see Him I will run up to Him fast, and give Him hugs and kisses.” “But He is God,” said one of the small elders soberly. “But He is our Lord Jesus too,” said another quickly, feeling for Leela, whose loving little heart had meant nothing wrong. Leela looked grateful, and afterwards confided that she always gave Him kisses in her prayers. Then from these heights there was a sudden drop. “I want to see the bad devil a corpse” said the Firefly, with startling energy.
Lola to Leela, on the institution of the Sabbath, was as follows:” And it was Friday, and God finished making everything, and He was tired. So He made Saturday into a resting-day; and it was Sunday. But a long time afterwards it was changed. For Jesus was very, very tired. He had been hurt so dreadfully, that was why He was tired; and it was Friday. And He rested in a cave on Saturday, which was Sunday. And then on the next day He got up. And He changed that day into
Sunday. And I think it was because He wanted another day for resting, because he was so very, very tired. So that day is our Sunday now.” Lola is a frivolous young person, wholly bent on the things of this life, but there was a note of sympathy in her voice as she mentioned the tiredness of Jesus; and Leela, who is a tender little soul, felt it at once, and her eyes filled. She was not comforted till I had told the story over again, somewhat otherwise. I wonder if the same thought has struck other children: the day of rest was changed because our Lord needed a second day’s rest.
A Bible class in which room is given for questions and remarks is a very fruitful field. You feel the richer for an experience such as I had to-day over the first few verses of Genesis.
The light of the first day was made by the shining of God’s face. This is evident, for the sun was not created then. The third day’s work suggested tails. I had been explaining about the change of the great forest trees into coal, now dug out of mines. “That’s where the people live who have tails,” was the staggering interposition. I found they all shared the idea. Under the earth is a great hole, and the people who live there cultivate tails. As for the fourth day’s work, as every town and village in the world requires its own sun and moon and stars, a complete sky system all to itself, that day must have been a very busy day. This was an equally general idea. How else could it be explained that the sun rises at different times in different places? Of course it is a different sun. When the fact, or as much of it as their small minds could grasp, dawned
How RAIN is MADE 267
upon the children, their astonishment was interesting. They looked at one another, counted up the different villages represented: “One sun to all these! What a big sun it must be!”
Kain is made by the angels: this was the last contribution to science. There is a great big well in Heaven, and when the angels see that the flowers of the world are thirsty, they go to the well and draw much water and pour it down. I expected the little voice would continue that the flowers, refreshed, looked up and thanked the angels, but it stopped short of this pretty conclusion, and added with deeper feeling: “Then the angels are all very happy because they are helping God.”
But the time of all times to get into the very inside mind of an Indian child is in the wonderful sunset hour when all Nature breathes softly, and just a little later, when the stars come out. Sometimes one gets shocks. I had always thought children heard God’s voice in the thunder and were awed. Not at all. “The clouds are quarrelling. If they don’t take care they’ll spill,” was the painfully practical remark tha* blew the dust from my eyes. So even in the silent glory of sunset, and even under the solemn stars, one must be prepared for prose as well as poetry.