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MY JAIL BABY

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Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Aug 27, 1902

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 28, No. 35.

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MY JAIL BABY.

By Stella North

[Stella North, in Union Signal.]
“Please give your consent, Phillip; I have quite set my heart upon it.”
“Do I understand, Adele, that you propose to take that baby, born behind the bars, whose mother is a murderer, and bring it up as our own child, regardless of consequences?”
“Yes,” I answered, “it is the one we saw in its carriage on Sunday, Phillip. She put her little hand out and caught my dress as I passed.”
“Do you know the history of this mother, Adele?”
“Only that she killed her husband in a fit of jealousy. The child should, of course, never know that. I should not even let our own people know that it was not an orphan.”
“But what if the child should inherit its mother’s dreadful nature?”
“Such a nature could not thrive in our wholesome home life,” I returned with more intuitive than reasoning power. “Anyway, it would have a chance to live a good life with us.”
“Very well, dear,” said he indulgently. “You know better than I do what is best in such a matter.”
So it was that the hapless little one-year-old baby came to share our hearts and home.
Nothing remarkable happened until my adopted child, Celia, was four years old. She had an extremely loving disposition which sometimes showed a jealous tendency. But I did not dream of the strength of this passion until one day little Celia came into the room and saw me fondling a half-starved kitten, that had strayed to our door. The child rushed across the room with almost insane fury, and, screaming at the top of her voice, she struck the kitten an angry blow, even before I realized where the trouble lay. Then climbing into my lap she clasped my neck as in a vice, exclaiming angrily, “Wicked cat! It’s my place.”
I tried to coax, to reason, to scold this spirit away, but each time I spoke Celia fairly screamed, “Wicked cat took Celia’s place.”
I could not have parted her hands about my neck without using rough force. She kept her eyes upon the frightened kitten until it left the room, and then she relaxed her grip, thoroughly exhausted with the terrible tension.
From that time I realized that Celia had a great struggle before her, and I prayed God that I might guide her aright in her affliction.
In a few days from this time Celia went to visit my sister for a month, and when she returned she found a great change in our home.
A baby boy had arrived in her absence, and I was filled with apprehension at the child’s reception of the newcomer, but I knew I must meet the circumstances with perfect faith that love would prevail.
Celia sprang into my arms, upon her arrival, and sobbed for joy at seeing me.
“We have something new in our house, Celia,” I said, after she was calm.
“What is it, mama?” she said with an unchildlike gleam of shrewdness in her eyes.
“A little, tiny baby,” I answered, giving her an extra caress.
“Whose baby?” she asked with wide eyes.
“Your baby,” I replied, “and papa’s baby and my baby.”
“It’s your baby,” she said, nestling closer.
“No,” I said thoughtfully, “this is my little girl. You are too big for a baby now, and if you did not grow into a little girl, you could never become a woman.”
“Let’s go see my baby and papa’s baby.”
I led her to the bedroom where the little one was asleep, but before she saw it she exclaimed half angrily, “Celia’s bed’s gone!”
I took her little hands, and before proceeding further into the room explained that we had given her a whole, large room to herself, and that her bed and dolls were all there.
“Will mama sleep with Celia?” she asked.
“I shall lie down with her until she is fast asleep, and then I shall sleep with baby.”
“I’d rather you would lie down with baby till he is fast asleep, and then sleep with me.” All this time she was looking at the innocent sleeper with apprehension in her face that was far beyond her years.
Just then the infant awoke and began to cry, and as I took it up Celia sprang at it in a great rage, stamping her feet, and trying to reach it while she opened and shut her angry little hands.
The many scenes that followed were distressing in the extreme. I was obliged to attend to baby’s wants as much as possible when she was not near, in order to avoid her terrible outbreaks of passion, as I had tried all the simple modes of punishment and coaxing without success. Each time she saw the baby in my arms her jealousy knew no bounds. It seemed to change her into an irresponsible creature.
Almost in despair I laid my plans for a new mode of treatment. Baby was an unusually healthy child and I thought he could stand heroic measures.
One day as he slept I prepared his bottle and placed it on the register to keep warm, Celia, meanwhile, watching me half cautiously from her chair in the corner, where she sat making doll’s clothes. She sewed on contentedly when I resumed my seat, and we thus sat for some time.
Presently, as I expected, the baby in the adjoining room began to nestle about; then there was a plaintive little cry. Plainly, baby was hungry. Celia watched me furtively, ready to fly into a tantrum at my first move; but I calmly stitched on. Another cry, but still I made no sign that I heard. I could feel the sharp little eyes watching me intently when the baby began to cry in good earnest, and I heard her give a little chuckle. Louder and louder the cries grew until the very air resounded with his lusty demands. Celia stood up, letting her doll fall, and looked toward baby’s door with a frightened face.
For a second all was still, and then the baby began that piteous crying that I knew preceded the sobbing stage. Would my own heart break before Celia’s heart would soften? My eyes filled with tears, but before I could brush them away Celia stole up to me, and putting her arm round my neck, awed by my strange silence she said, huskily, “Mama does baby’s stomach ache?”
“No, Celia,” I said, controlling myself with an effort; “he is very hungry.” Just then the baby began to sob, and the little girl, now sobbing aloud herself, snatched the bottle from the register and ran with it into the bedroom. I waited a moment and then followed her. Celia sat on the bed with one arm around baby, the other holding the bottle for him to drink, and I am sure that I saw in the little girl’s face a reflection of divine motherhood. I gathered her into my arms with an overflowing heart, for altho this was only one victory, I knew that the whole war against that dread enemy would be won in time if our tactics were only good.
From this time Celia loved the baby devotedly. She would run to him whenever she heard him cry, and would willingly sacrifice anything she had to soothe or quiet him.
As soon as she was old enough to understand, I taught her the positive necessity of love to happiness, and I personified it in all my stories, introducing, jealousy as love’s worst enemy. Gradually Celia learned to search within herself for this unlovely trait, and before many years she had conquered it completely.
The enemy had long been vanquished before the first real lover came into her life, and in place of the old foe was a natural repelling of evil for evil’s sake, together with a shrewd understanding of humanity which I am sure will ever go hand in hand with her great love of nature.
From this experience of mine, I claim a right to hold that any trait of character, hereditary or otherwise, may be revolutionized through understanding, patience, and sagacious guidance.