FIVE LITTLE BABIES
This is going to be a story about some little babies,—five different little babies who were born in five different parts of this big round world and didn’t look alike or think alike at all.
One little baby was all yellow. He just came that way. His eyes were black and slanted up in his little face. His hair was black and straight. He wore gay little silk coats and gay little silk trousers with flowers and figures sewed all over them. When he looked up he saw his father’s face was yellow and so was his mother’s. And his father’s hair was black and so was his mother’s. And when he was a little older he saw they both wore gay silk coats and gay silk trousers with flowers and figures sewed all over them. But the baby didn’t think any of this was queer,—not even when he grew up. For every one he knew had yellow skin and wore silk coats and trousers. So of course he thought all the world was that way.
But long before he was old enough to notice any of these things he knew his mother loved her little yellow baby with slanting black eyes. And he loved to have her take him in her arms and sing to him, saying:
“Chu Sir Tsun Ching Min. Tsoun Sun
Gi Gi. Koo Yin Fee Min Kwei
Hua Shiang Lee Pan Run Yin.
Fon Chin Yoa Sir. Loo Yi To
Choa Yeo Liang Sung. Tsun Tze
Doo Soo Soo Wei Gun. Tsin Tsin.”
For all this happened in China and he was a little Chinese Baby.
Another little baby was all brown. He just came that way. His eyes were black and his hair was black. He wore pretty colored silk shawls and little silk dresses. And when he looked up he saw his father’s face was brown and that he wore a big turban on his head. And he saw that around his mother’s brown face was long soft hair. He saw that she wore pretty colored silk shawls and long silk trousers and bare feet. But the baby didn’t think any of this was queer,—even when he grew up. He thought every one had brown skin and that everybody dressed like himself and his father and his mother.
But long before he was old enough to notice any of these things, he knew his mother loved her little brown baby with black eyes. And he loved to have her take him in her arms and sing to him, saying:
“Arecoco Jarecoco, Jungle parkie bare,
Marabata cunecomunga dumrecarto sare,
Hillee milee puneah jara de naddeah,
Arecoco Jarecoco Jungle parkie bare.”
For all this happened in India and he was a little Indian baby.
Now another little baby was all black. He just came that way. His eyes were black and his hair was black and curled in tight kinky curls all over his little head. And this little baby didn’t wear anything at all except a loin cloth. When he looked up he saw the black faces and kinky black hair of his father and his mother. And when he was a little older he saw that they didn’t wear any clothes either except a loin cloth and a feather skirt and some shells. Neither did this baby think any of this was queer,—not even when he grew older. He thought all the world looked and dressed like that.
But long before he was old enough to notice any of these things, he knew his mother loved her little black baby with kinky black hair. And he loved to have her take him in her arms and sing to him, saying,
“O túla, mntwána, O túla,
Unyóko akamúko,
Uséle ezintabéni,
Uhlú shwa izigwégwe,
Iwá.
O túla, mntwána, O túla,
Unyóko w-zezobúya,
Akupatéle ínto enhlé,
Iwá.”
For all this happened in Africa and he was a little negro baby.
Still another little baby,—he was the fourth,—was all red. He just came that way. His eyes were black and his hair was straight and black. He was bound up tight and slipped into a basket and carried around on his mother’s back. He didn’t think this was queer, even when he grew up. He thought all little babies were carried that way. And he thought all fathers and mothers had red skin and black hair and wore leather coats and trousers trimmed with feathers. For his did.
But long before he was old enough to notice any of these things he knew his mother loved her little red baby that she carried on her back, and he loved to have her take him out of his basket bed and rock him in her arms and sing to him, saying:
“Cheda-e
Nakahu-kalu
Be-be!
Nakahu-kalu
Be-be!
E-Be-be!”
For all this happened in America long, long ago, and he was a little Indian baby.
The last little baby, and he makes five, was all white. He just came so too. His eyes were blue and his hair was gold and he looked like a little baby you know. And he wore dear little white dresses and little knitted shoes. When he looked up he saw his father’s white skin and his mother’s blue eyes. When the baby was big enough he saw what kind of clothes his father and his mother wore,—but the story doesn’t tell what they were like. And when the baby was big enough he saw they all lived in a big dirty noisy city, but the story doesn’t tell what kind of a house they lived in. And the story doesn’t tell whether he thought any of these things queer when he was little or when he grew up; probably because you know all these things yourselves. But the story does tell that long before he was old enough to notice any of these things he knew his mother loved her little white baby with blue eyes and golden hair. And it tells that he loved to have her rock him in her arms and sing to him this song:
“Listen, wee baby,
I’d sing you a song;
The arms of the mothers
Are tender and strong,
The arms of the mothers
Where babies belong!
Brown mothers and yellow
And black and red too,
They love their babies
As I, dear, love you,—
My little white blossom
With wide eyes of blue!
And your wee golden head,
I do love it, I do!
And your feet and your hands
I love you there too!
And my love makes me sing to you
Sing to you songs,
Lying hushed in my arms
Where a baby belongs!”
For all this is happening in your own country every day and he is a little American baby. Perhaps you know his father,—perhaps you know the baby,—perhaps, oh, perhaps, you have heard his mother sing!
ONCE THE BARN WAS FULL OF HAY
This story made a special appeal to the school children because the school building was originally a stable in MacDougal Alley. They had even witnessed this evolution from stable to garage. The children have seemed to enjoy the rhythmic language without any sense of strangeness.