The Incubator Baby

by Ellis Parker Butler

“Oh!” said Miss Vickers. She wrote rapidly for a few moments. “By the way,” she said, between cards. “I forgot to tell you—” she wrote in a temperature—“that the committee”—another card—“said that a new sterilizer is needed”—another record written—“and said to tell you to get one”—another card—“this morning.”

Chiswick threw the baby clothes she held in her hand upon the crib with more than necessary violence. She jammed her hat on her head and stuck a hat pin through it vindictively. She ran all the way to the druggist's and back, and as she entered the house she glanced at the horse block spitefully. Mrs. Fielding met her at the door.

“Chiswick,” she said, “I'm going to let you have another afternoon out to-day.”

Marjorie enjoyed Chiswick's outings. She found herself in a world where people did nice things to her, and her appetite for petting became a vice. When entertainment stopped she doubled up her fists, closed her eyes and yelled. Sometimes, if her demands went long unanswered, she held her breath until she was purple in the face. Against such a plea only Chiswick could remain obdurate. She seemed absolutely incorruptible, but she was not. Every woman has her price.

It was an afternoon of the meeting of the federation and Mrs. Fielding was out. Miss Vickers was out, too, and Chiswick was happy. She did not have to take an outing.

Marjorie sat on the sterilized floor and planned the downfall of Chiswick. She wanted to be rocked asleep, and that, like Mary's little lamb, was against the rule. Scientific babies are laid in the crib and go to sleep without rocking. Marjorie wept.

She began by rubbing her eyes with the back of her chubby fists and yawning until her mouth was a little pink circle. That was to tell Chiswick she was sleepy. Chiswick put her in the crib.

Marjorie sat up and whimpered, pausing from time to time to look at Chiswick. Chiswick remained calm and indifferent. Marjorie lay back, stiffened her limbs and yelled. Chiswick was not affected. Marjorie rolled over on one side, raised her voice an octave, and shrieked, beating the side of her crib with her fists. She became purple in the face. Chiswick paid no attention.

Marjorie, disgusted, became suddenly quiet. She feigned meekness. She sat up in her crib and smiled. She pretended that sleep and rocking were farthest from her thoughts. She coaxed to be put on the floor. Chiswick yielded so far, as a reward of merit.

Without an instant's hesitation Marjorie crept to the rocking chair that stood in one corner of the room and tried her latest and most famous trick. It was a trick of which she was justly proud. When she had done it for her mother she had been deliciously hugged, and it never failed to win a kiss from her father. True, she had always performed it with the assistance of a crib leg, but the rocking chair looked serene. Marjorie could stand on her own legs, with something to hold to, and she was going to do it for Chiswick.