Again I wish to reiterate the statement that the teacher did not tuck that napkin in. She took it once more and went through very slowly all the necessary movements. The child’s big, black eyes fastened on her in a passion of attention, and I noticed that his little empty hands followed automatically the slow, distinctly separated, analyzed movements of the teacher’s hands. When she gave the napkin back to him, he seized it with an air of resolution which would have done honor to Napoleon, grasping it firmly and holding his wandering baby-wits together with the aid of a determined frown. He pulled his collar away from his neck with one hand and, still frowning determinedly, thrust a large segment of the napkin down with the other, spreading out the remainder on his chest, with a long sigh of utter satisfaction, which went to my heart. As he trotted back to his place, I noticed that the incident had been observed by several of the children near us, on whose smiling faces, as they looked at their triumphant little comrade, I could see the reflection of my own gratified sympathy. One of them reached out and patted the napkin as its proud wearer passed.
But I had not been all the morning in that children’s home, perfect, though not made with a mother’s hands, without having my mother’s jealousy sharply aroused. A number of things had been stirring up protests in my mind. I was alarmed at the sight of all these babies, happy, wisely occupied, perfectly good, and learning unconsciously the best sort of lessons, and yet in an atmosphere differing so entirely from all my preconceived ideas of a home. All this might be all very well for Italian mothers so poor that they were obliged to leave their children in order to go out and help earn the family living; or for English mothers, who expect as a matter of course that their little children shall spend most of their time with nurse-maids and governesses. But I could not spare my children, I told myself. I asked nothing better than to have them with me every moment they were awake. What was to be done about this ominously excellent institution which seemed to treat the children more wisely than I, for all my efforts? I felt an uneasy, apprehensive hostility towards these methods, contrasting so entirely with mine, for mine were, I assured myself hotly, based on the most absolute, supreme mother’s love for the child.
I now turned to the teacher and said protestingly, “That would have been a very little thing to do for a child.”
She laughed. “I’m not his nurse-maid. I’m his teacher,” she replied.
“That’s all very well, but his soup will be cold, you know, and he will be late to his luncheon!”
She did not deny this, but she did not seem as struck as I was by the importance of the fact. She answered whimsically, “Ah, one must remember not to obtrude one’s adult materialism into the idealistic world of children. He is so happy over his victory over himself that he wouldn’t notice if his soup were iced.”
The Morning Clean-up.
Waiter Carrying Soup.
Copyright 1912, by Carl R. Byoir