Baby Island (3 page)

Jean stuck her fingers in the crack of the paneling and struggled manfully. “I see I’ll have to be the father of this family,” she said. Suddenly the panel came loose, and she toppled backward with the piece of wood in her hands. Inside the small cupboard space, which was thus revealed, were several neatly arranged rows of tin boxes and cans.

“What is it?” called Mary over the terrific howling of the four babies, which was growing worse every minute. Jean regained her balance and began to investigate.

“Two jugs of water,” she called. “That’ll be something for them to drink.”

“Water! Oh, dear! Are you sure it isn’t milk?”

“Sure. And hardtack. Ugh! I hate hardtack.”

“But, Jean,” cried Mary delightedly, “hardtack will be the very thing for the babies to cut their teeth on!”

“Canned beans,” continued Jean, “and canned beef.”

“Not so good,” said Mary, “the babies can’t digest such heavy food.”

“Believe me,” said Jean, “
I can.”
She was busy pulling out cans. Suddenly she gave a shout and waved a can in the air.

“Canned milk!” she screamed. “Canned milk!”

“What?” cried Mary, beaming with joy and almost unable to believe her ears. “Canned milk?”

“Moo! Moo!” shrieked the Snodgrass twins, tumbling over each other to try to reach Jean. Jean triumphantly produced a can opener and several tin cups, and began to prepare the babies’ breakfast.

“Oh,” said Mary, “it’s too good to be true. I never was so pleased to find anything in my life.” In a moment Mary knew exactly what to do. “Light the lantern, Jean, and mix some of the water and the milk together in a cup and warm it over the lantern.”

This was a rather slow process, but while the milk was warming, Jean beguiled the time with an oration.

“The hen that laid this milk—” she began dramatically, flourishing a can.

“Be sensible, Jean,” said Mary, laughing. “Hens don’t lay milk.”

“Well, what I mean to say is, the cow that gave this milk shall have my internal gratitude.”

“You mean ‘eternal gratitude,’” corrected Mary. “We mustn’t forget our grammar just because we’ve become sailors, Jean.”

The twins were able to feed themselves without spilling more than a fourth of each cup, and Jean held the cup for Ann Elizabeth, who began to smile and gurgle as soon as she tasted the milk. Mary reserved for herself the more difficult task of feeding the tiny Snodgrass baby. How glad she was now that she had thought to bring his bottle!

“We should never have been able to teach him to drink out of a cup, Jean!”

“I’ve seen Cousin Alex teach a young calf to drink by putting his finger down in the milk pail and letting the calf suck his finger,” remarked Jean.

“But Mrs. Snodgrass was always so particular about having everything boiled and sanitary and not touching anything
with her fingers. It would have been awful to do it that way.”

“Well, it never killed the calf,” observed Jean, as she wiped Ann Elizabeth’s mouth and nose on a corner of the tarpaulin.

Finally all the hungry babies were fed, and Mary laid Jonah in the bottom of the boat on her folded coat. The sun had become delightfully warm, and he soon went to sleep again. Ann Elizabeth, her head wreathed in shiny curls, sat up sedately and played with her fingers. The twins were more trouble, for everything small which they could lay hands on must be put in their mouths, and everything too large to go in their mouths must be thrown overboard. Jean just caught the Blue Twin in time as he was about to hurl one of the precious cans of milk into the sea. They had already thrown over all the detachable oarlocks, and Mary remarked with a sigh that the mermaids down below would certainly know that the Snodgrass twins were going by, by the number of loose objects which were thrown down.

“Well, it’s
something
not to be
able
to pick the things up again,” said Jean. “Do you remember how the twins used to fling the knives and forks and spoons off the table fifty times during a meal on the steamship? I used to get a cramp in my back helping poor Mrs. Snodgrass pick them up.”

“This
will
be something of a vacation for poor Mrs.
Snodgrass,” said Mary thoughtfully. “I hope she’s where she can enjoy it.”

Finally Jean thought of providing the twins with pieces of hardtack, which kept them happy for some time. The girls opened a can of beef.

“I like milk, too,” hinted Jeannie in a gentle voice.

“Jean,” said Mary severely, “we are parents now, and parents must always think first of their children. These babies will need every speck of that milk.”

“Yes’m,” said Jean humbly, reaching for the canned beef.

In this moment of comparative quiet the two girls from the United States began to take stock of their belongings and plan for the future. They were very independent and self-reliant little girls, for, ever since they could remember, they had had to do almost everything for themselves. Their mother had died when they were quite small, and their father, although a very kind man, had been too busy making a living for them to lavish much attention upon them. There had been housekeepers, of course, but it was always wise little Mary who took the responsibility of the household. When Mary was ten, their father had been offered the management of a big ranch in Australia. He did not wish to take his children to such a faraway country until he was sure that he liked it and wished to settle there. So for two years Mary and Jean had lived with Aunt Emma,
Uncle Angus, and grown-up Cousin Alex in Scotsville, Iowa.

In Scotsville they had never had time to be lonely. They went to school, of course, and there was a great deal to do to help Aunt Emma, and, after school and chores were done, they went out and borrowed the neighbors’ babies. They played with them, and wheeled them and jounced them and put them to sleep. The tired and work-worn mothers of Scotsville considered Mary and Jean nature’s greatest blessings, the babies loved them, and Mary and Jean themselves were perfectly happy.

At the end of the two years, their father had sent for them, and with many tears at parting, Aunt Emma had put them on the train that would take them to San Francisco. There they had been met by another relative who had put them on the steamship
Orminta.
For nearly two weeks they had had a most delightful time, wandering about her decks, making friends with the captain, and most of all helping Mrs. Snodgrass and Mrs. Arlington with their babies. Then came the wreck, and now, of course, they were obliged to change all their plans for the future. For here they were with four babies to care for in an open boat, and the prospect of reaching their father in Australia seemed now very dim.

“It’s too bad you didn’t bring along some of our baggage, Mary,” said Jean regretfully.

“Good gracious! I had all I could do to rescue the twins and you and Jonah. I didn’t have time to think of toothbrushes and nightgowns.”

“Well, I don’t feel so bad about toothbrushes,” said Jean. “But what I do feel bad about is my pink taffeta—the only silk dress I ever had, and now it’s gone to the bottom of the sea! I’m afraid the fish won’t ‘preciate it.”

“Never mind,” consoled Mary. “Just think how sweet a baby whale would look in it, Jeannie.”

“And there’s Miranda,” continued Jean plaintively. “She’s the best doll I ever had, even if her skull is cracked and her front teeth knocked out.”

“Goodness,” said Mary. “I shouldn’t feel sorry about that dreadful old doll, if I were you. Here we have four live ones. As long as I can remember we’ve had to borrow other people’s babies. It’s a perfect shame the way we’ve had to go around and beg and borrow, and say, ‘Please, ma’am, may we take your baby out?’ And then we could only keep ’em a half an hour or so. Now we have four, and they’re
ours!
We ought to be the happiest girls in the world!”

Jean nodded vigorously. Her mouth was too full of canned beef to reply.

CHAPTER THREE

W
HILE
the babies napped and the lifeboat bobbed over the waters, Mary and Jean turned out their pockets to see what useful things chance might have sent along with them. Out of Jean’s came a ball of string, a piece of tinfoil, a chain of safety pins, a stubby pencil, and a half-written postal card for Aunt Emma.

“There’s no use in
that
anyway,” said Mary, looking at the card.

It was a picture of the
Orminta
, floating upon a calm blue sea. On the other side, Jean had written:

Dear Aunt: The wether is fine. We are all fine. This is a fine boat.

“Oh, what fibs!” exclaimed Jean.

“They’re not fibs at all,” said Mary, smiling, “only the picture on the other side ought to show our lifeboat instead of the steamer. For the weather really is fine today, we are all well, and this is a fine boat even if it is a very little one.”

Jean was already busy filling up the rest of the space on the card. She wrote:

We are on our way to a dessert Hand with the Snodgrass babies and Ann Elizabeth Arlington. We are all well and happy, hoping you are the same.

Your luving neece,

Jean.

P.S. The boat in the picture was recked. We are in a fine little lifeboat.

“I promised Aunt Emma I’d write her every week,” said Jean solemnly, “so here goes number one by deepwater express.” She wrote her aunt’s name and address on the card, folded it several times, wrapped it in the piece of tinfoil, put it in the empty beef can, bent down the cover, and set the can floating across the water.

“Well, of all things!” said Mary. “I suppose you expect the postman to come by and collect it.”

“No,” admitted Jean, “but Aunt Emma can’t say I didn’t try, can she?”

The two girls laughed, but somehow their laughter wasn’t very mirthful, for they kept thinking of Aunt Emma’s sorrowful face when she would hear of the wreck and receive no news of them.

Mary’s pockets were always more orderly than Jean’s. She had a small purse with a few coins in it, a very neat notebook with a calendar in the back, and a “housewife.” The housewife was a small leather case containing a pair of scissors, a thimble, thread, and needles, which Mary
declared would be very useful in keeping the babies’ clothes tidy.

“And it’s lucky I have this notebook, too,” she said, “for the calendar will help us keep track of time, and that’s important. If we didn’t have a calendar, we might forget when Sunday comes, and the babies must be brought up to respect the Sabbath day and keep it holy, just as they would if they were at home.”

“But we can’t go to Sunday school on a desert island,” objected Jean.

“No,” replied Mary, “but we can lay aside our labors and sing a hymn, and you can repeat the twenty-third Psalm to the children so’s you won’t forget it.”

Jean heaved a heavy sigh. The twenty-third Psalm had always been a great trial to her.

“And in the rest of the notebook,” Mary continued, “we’ll make a record, like a family Bible.” Taking the pencil, Mary sat with it poised for a moment, lost in thought. Then on the first page of the notebook, she wrote in a clear round hand the following record:

Rescued from the sinking ship
Orminta
by