Sylvia’s Valentine

SYLVIA'S VALENTINE By Elizabeth Cannon Porter Sylvia Adams, clad in the loveliest of peach-colored negligees, was brushing her bobbed hair preparatory to going to bed. A ring came at the door-bell. Instinctively she glanced at the clock. "Who could be calling at this time of night?" It wa9 eleven- thirty. Then she remembered: it was Hallowe'en. Probably someone play- ing a joke. When she opened the door and found no one there, she was convinced of it. A gust of cold wind blew in, and she hastily shut it again. Her mother came from the other part of the house. "Are you sure, Sylvia, that there was no one there?" she queried. The older woman went out on the porch. Leaves from baring boughs rattled down. "There was something after all," Mrs. Thomas bore a basket in her arms. She set it down gingerly in a corner of the room. "Some of the school boys playing a practical joke," surmised her daughter. A faint sound issued from the basket. "Perhaps," she exclaimed in consternation, "it's a cat." She already had three cats and was planning, diplomatically, to get rid of two of them. On her knees beside the basket she pulled back the blanket. "Why," she cried, "it's a baby!" With quick delight she gathered it in her arms1. Then she took it to the light. "H'm," said her mother judiciously. "It appears to be only a day or two old. See if there isi any word." She held the pink, wrinkled mite, while her daughter delved among the blankets. "Sure enough, there's a note," she said in a hushed tone. She unpinned it from the shawl, straightened it out and read: "Mrs. Adams: "The mother of this baby cannot take care of him. Her sorrow at giving him up is only comforted by the knowledge that he goes to a home as splendid as yours." "It's a boy," said Sylvia thoughtfully. Then she added, "I wonder how they knew that I wanted a baby." "You're going to keep him, then?" asked her mother. "Surely. I know that Ward will want him — especially after he sees him." The tiny pink fist had closed on her fingers. The touch sent an ecstatic thrill through her. "Do you remember what the old prospector in Nevada used to

320 IMPROVEMENT ERA say: 'Luck comes with any weak thing that seeks shelter with you in a storm.' The baby came to us in a windstorm." "Dear me," exclaimed her mother nervously, "I do wish that we knew more about his parents." With the excitement of keeping the electric heater going and administering warm water to the foundling by means of a teaspoon, Sylvia did not sleep that night. At six o'clock the next morning she called up her husband at a hotel in another town over the long distance 'phone. His voice came grumbling over the wire, as if he had just awakened. "Hello. Who is it? Sylvia? I can't hear you." "What! You say you've got a baby! Where'd you get it?" suspiciously. "You found it on the doorstep! For the love of — ! That's it crying now! Sure, I'll be right home." Ward was as good as his word. He started out with such speed that he broke down his car. He hired another from a garage and then nearly arrived in time for breakfast. When they put the infant into his arms, he looked just as helpless! as any other newly-made father. With his wife, he put in the remainder of the forenoon buying clothes for the baby. By the laws of human association the child became theirs in the next few years. They named him; legally adopted him; mastered the elements of nutrition; nursed him through the measles. He had learned to walk and talk. He enriched Sylvia' si life; Ward took renewed interest in his home. After she had been married fifteen years. Sylvia had despaired of ever having a child of her own. Because it was the one thing that she could not give him, children was1 what her husband hungered for. When they drove out on summer evenings it was to the Pem- brokes' that he wanted to go. As she watched Ward play with their little girls jealousy smoldered in her heart. Again when she went through her large, immaculate rooms, she , was struck with the emptiness of them. She thought of the Guttenbergs on the outskirts of town, with their ten children, and so little to feed and clothe them with. She wondered why these things were so. With her charm and tact and beauty, Sylvia had been a big element in her husband's success. She encouraged him, looked after his physical comforts, presided over a beautiful home which served as a background for his wealth. Yet, she had reflected bitterly, the lack of children would affect her worse in the years to come. A man has his business. A woman is queen over her own family. Lacking that, she is bereft. She had thought of adopting a child. She had gone with a fellow clubwoman, who was on the board of trustees, to visit the Orphan's

SYLVIA'S VALENTINE 321 Home. Here she learned many things that surprised her. One was that the demand for children is so great that there are a hundred applicants on the waiting list. Also the prospective parents must give references as to health, financial resources and many other qualifications. The matron told her that the happiness and well-being of the child was always the first consideration. Yes, sometimes they got them back. In placing a child, however, they always tried to make the transaction as permanent as possible by getting a legal relinquish- ment from the nearest of kin. This was sometimes difficult to procure, especially where only one parent was dead and the other had put the child in the home — because of temporary disability. Some widowed .mothers had brought their children there through poverty, and, having to work, they could not properly care for them. These mothers usually hung on to their children valiantly till, through some turn of fortune, they could get them back. Out in the yard a group of bright-eyed, manly boys surrounded them. "Take me home with you," several of them cried eagerly. But Mrs. Adams shrank from the responsibility of taking a ten-year-old boy to raise. It was after this that baby Gerry had come to them out of the night. He was going on four now. He had no brothers or sisters. His mother caught him peering through the shutters wistfully interested in the doings of all the little Finnegans. Mr. Adamsi brought him a police dog. * * * On Valentine's day Sylvia arranged the violets that her hus- band had telegraphed her. She put them in low bowls throughout the rooms. First harbingers of spring were they. Little Gerry warmed his hands at the open fireplace. His face, ruddy with the outside air, glowed. He had been out driving with his mother. Sylvia always liked St. Valentine's day because in the intermoun- tain country the middle of February meant that the backbone of the winter was broken. No wonder the birds began to make plans for spring housekeeping. Bare boughs still looked wintry, as did the piles of melting snow. Sylvia's brother, Dr. Claude Thomas, was there waiting on her return. He hastily excused himself, however, and seemed strangely ill at ease. "Wonder what Claude had on his mind? He acted so funny." She gathered up her wraps from the hall and carried them to her room. There seemed a movement on the bed. She screamed. On the bed was a baby, — a gorgeously bedecked baby, all gotten up in hand embroideries. "Where in the world" — slowly comprehension seemed to dawn on her.

322 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Why Claude must have brought it. No wonder he looked so sneaky!" Then she remembered a conversation she had had with him in which she had deplored the loneliness of an only child. "It is a sin to rear a child without companionship," she had ex- claimed, thinking of Gerry. Good old Claude had gone about to remedy the situation to the best of his ability. "You little darling!" and she took this second baby to her heart. Lot Angeles, Calif. Evening It was evening on the mountain, The sun, suspended low, Was mirrored in the brooklet Where moss and lilies grow. The canyon vale was livid With a fan-like, golden flare That mingled with the shadows Then creeping through the air. The sullen pines stood breathless 'Mid aspens, scattered far, And seemed to be just waiting For the big, bright vesper star. The lark was high above me, As the raven nestward flew, With a "kaw," and lazy motion Against the fading blue. And as the sun departed With its spreading trains of gold, The hills grew vague and somber, Like castles huge and old. Then starlets, pale and timid, Came glinting through the sky To draw my thoughts to heaven Where the realms of glory lie. So there I sat and pondered, Entranced by the soul of night, Till the moon appeared in splendor Adding glory to the sight. Los Angeles, California. A. B. CHRISTENSON.