Children of Guss Saunders, with their Grandmother.
Owing to the courtesy of the County Superintendent and the intelligent coöperation of the teachers, it was possible to apply the Binet tests to all the descendants of Martin Kallikak who could be found in the schools. The request for this had been made in a way to give no clew to the particular purpose underlying the search. By selecting from every class one or two bright pupils to take the tests along with the dull ones, all personal element was eliminated. As children everywhere are found to delight in the tests, only those who were not called out were disappointed.
A morning was spent in a schoolhouse situated on the top of a bold, rocky ledge that went by the picturesque name of Hard Scrabble. It was within a quarter of a mile of the ruins of Martin Kallikak’s hut, and a number of his descendants were enrolled among its pupils.
One of the grandsons of “Old Sal” lived on a farm near Cedarhill, several miles farther up the ridge. This man, Guss Saunders by name, had been reported to be the father of a large family. Nothing, however, had been learned of him beyond the facts stated, and therefore the inference was that he had turned out better than the rest of his brothers. It had been to determine this matter that the long ride was undertaken.
Arrived at the farm, the question of the mentality of this family was quickly answered. Desolation and ruin became more apparent at every step. The front of the large farmhouse was quite deserted, but following a few tracks the back door was reached. Such an unwonted spectacle as a visitor attracted instant attention. The door opened, revealing a sight to which, alas, the field worker was only too accustomed. She gazed aghast at what appeared to her to be a procession of imbeciles. The tall, emaciated, staggering man at the head braced himself against a tree, while the rest stopped and stood with a fixed, stupid stare. Quickly regaining control, the field worker said pleasantly, “Good afternoon, Mr. Saunders. I hope you don’t mind my intruding on you this way, but you see I am looking up the children of the neighborhood, and I was sorry not to find any of yours in the Cedarhill school to-day.” He at once thought he had to do with a school inspector, and his answer bears no setting forth in print. It was an incoherent, disjointed, explosive protest against school laws in general and fate in particular. It was mixed up with convulsive sobs, while his bleared, swollen eyes brimmed over with tears. The field worker began to feel real sympathy for the man, although she knew that he was drunk and that drunkards are easily moved to tears. “Oh, I am sorry for you,” she said; “your wife then is dead, is she?” “Yes, she’s dead!” he answered with a wild gesture, “they took her right out of that room—they said they’d cure her, if I’d let her go. You can see the doctors in B——, they know all about it—they’ll tell you what they done—they took her away, and she never come back—Oh!” Stifling his sobs, he went on, “And now they say I am to send my children to school—and what can I do? Look there!” pointing to a lump of humanity, a girl who, at first glance, had thrown her imbecilic shadow over the whole group, making them all look imbecilic—“do you see that girl? She’s always fallin’ into fits, and nobody can’t do nothin’ with her.” Breaking in here, the field worker said, “But, Mr. Saunders, you ought not to have the burden and the care of that girl; she could be made so happy and comfortable in a place where they understand such cases. You ought—” The field worker could get no farther. His eyes suddenly assumed a wild, desperate look and he burst out, “No, no! They’ll never get her. They tried it once, but they didn’t get her. They took my wife away and she never came back—they’ll never get her!” A few soothing words to allay the storm she had unconsciously raised, another expression of sympathy, and the field worker drove away, pondering deeply the meaning of what had been seen and heard.
We have come to the point where we no longer leave babies or little children to die uncared for in our streets, but who has yet thought of caring intelligently for the vastly more pathetic child-man or child-woman, who through matured sex powers, which they do not understand, fill our land with its overflowing measure of misery and crime? Such thoughts as these filled the mind of the field worker on the ride home.
Arrived at B——, her first care was to obtain an interview with the doctor who had attended Guss’s wife when she died. She found him ready to explain all he could of the family which he had always known and attended. “The mother,” he said, “was a kind-hearted, simple-minded soul, who tended as best she could to the needs of her family.” The epileptic girl, he explained, had always been a great care, and the doctor himself, aided by several prominent citizens, had taken the trouble to complete all necessary arrangements for having her admitted to the epileptic colony at Skillman. The father, however, could never be made to give his consent. The mother was still quite young when she was carrying her eleventh child. Some accident happened which threatened her with a miscarriage. The doctor was summoned. He saw that it was a serious case and sent for two other physicians in consultation. It was decided that an immediate operation was necessary, if the woman’s life was to be saved. They succeeded in persuading Guss to allow her to be removed to the hospital. Their efforts, however, were unavailing; she died under the operation.
On the outskirts of B—— lived the owner of the Cedarhill farm worked by Guss Saunders. He proved to be an intelligent man, with an admirably appointed home. He was keenly alive to the needs of the family, about which the field worker came to inquire. “The pity about Guss,” he began, “is that he can never let drink alone. Why, do you know, if I paid that man wages, he’d use every cent for rum. I ceased giving him money long ago, for if I had, the town would have had to look after his children. I give him credit at the store, and they supply him with what he needs.”
The foregoing glimpses of the defective branch of the Kallikak family must suffice, though the field worker’s memory and notebook contain many similar instances.
In turning to describe the other branch of the family, two difficulties confront the writer.