BABIES AT PIAY.

,--,:; ; ;,,"■ iir"u,:cu;R Kotty.Tr. ■' :':-■ •'■' '£*??*' xr - s "''s stirring a; huge potlul of soup laid looking every now and again into a; saucepan, for the babies' dinner hoar was hear. - Fiction, written and otherwise will have it that as meal time approaches, babies raise, their voices against; interminable delay. Well, the babies at iks Greystreet Mission_'■ Croclie'/.were.; not '• crying:. Since. I have never fore heard so many babies together. I have no words to 'describe' the merriment that wa« going on. Baby feet were pattering, baby voices svere ringing, crowing, laughing, chattering; / It was the sound of a nest of birds "which have never been hungry enough to attain harsh notes in their twitters. ,-''-' --

Sister Hannah and I stood behind a closed door. .; She wedged her head ' in rwhenit gave a little'to her pressure. 'Her arm disappeared, and then a'robust little youngster was levered away sufiicientlv to let us enter. And there was such a chorus! Some said "Hullo."y One succeeded in lisping a "Good morning, sister." A sturdy boy baby- banged hard at the sides of his box, and all the toddlers clustered round and give us such welcome. Only a new'baby girl, whose head was a picture of golden curls, sat still for a while. Two twine took stock of me, decided that I was 'of Iris elect, and told m,» a scrap of baby news.

;/■ One little maiden displayed' an innate gift of interviewing. She captuied mo as I knelt to talk baby talk to' a fat little thing. She patted my scarf, (isked what. it was. then told me that I, bad a " pussy" hat, and when she had stroked it to her satisfaction aimed a •.- running .fire of; questions at me. The tables were turned-completely. • ;>." What's your name? Where do you live? What's in your bag?'* She patted my dress arid, my cheeks; and my personal appearance and my replies being 'evidently in my favour she took mv hand and said «*'libok!" ■".'■ ,//' ... •'',;, ■

So I was led info the sleeping room by her ladyship. The chief attrtciion in her eyes seemed to be •; swinging cot. She only swung it foi my edification. Then she introduced the caps and bonnets of the other babies, invited mo to cry one on, and compromised fitting it on the head of the new baby who had now joined' the flock. •' " ' '• ' '- ''. " /.

- Ail The while Urn chatter and the gurgle went on around us. Jem made a discovery ,that somebody's hat was " bwoke," and tugged at Bisters skirt to emphasise the fact. ,W« grown-ups were examining the structure of the cots, which "came to pieces" when it is necessary to, wash and scour them, and Sister Hannah was exclaiming to me that folded rugs were better for babies' clay slumbers than anything else, the principle being that everything needs constant washing and cleaning. But the babies begun to tire of adult conversation, aud nurse, coming into the playroom, they crowdedto chatter to her; . / /

■ They,talked in untranslated baby prattle. Amy was faithful to me, but Henry seemed to resent her occupation of-the stage. He., having matured his plans, promptly hutted her, and drove her frora wall to wall; until lie was taken, in hand and scolded for his uiigcntlemanly behaviour. The sun: shone in, . at- the windows on the glistening cur T s and /the; rosy faces. All came crowding round again' to say good-bye, and as the door opened a half-dozen promptly ran under our.ahr/, escaping to other quarters. Amy led, but her object turned out to be the "pictures in the next room. - She was doing the honours', and wanted me to miss nothing. ;. But dinner was ready now, and the nurses were waiting-for the little ones not able yet to sit at the two-foot high table, and so the .stragglers;' being again yarded, we repeated. our good-byes." One' smart little fellow liv. ird "Amy inwft'iing l.'y name, and ■ frenr behind the door we heard-his- clear voice rise in ''Good-bye, Mrs. Rocket." '. It "was.; a veritable playland. and /the contented sounds, still followed Us from the warm, bright, room. ' . The/only pity seemed to' be that such happy babies . should ever bo-taken away. , The creche begins its work in the early morning. Mothers going out to their work bring their babies then, and the head nurse is ready to receive them. The water in the big copper boiler is ready. Each arrival is promptly given a warm tub. Home clothes are laid aside and garments washed every day at'the creche are put on. Then comes a,* satisfying breakfast of porridge, and baby begins bis happy day. of play with a dozen other tubbed and fed babies.'v

At twelve dinner comessoup, bread, and dripping (take note, housewives, with an extra pan of fat). The afternoon brings nodding heads, and then the use of the cots becomes evident. Hear baby eyes close, merry little voices grow still, .sturdy, active legs are tired. The sun shines in, the fire burns warm; but round cheeks press the pillows, and clean blankets are tucked round softly-breathing children. Tea time is a busy one. Rice or sago or other substantial fond is prepared for hungry mouths, clothes are changed, and babies got ready for mothers. One by one they disappear up the hill. Husk sees the last mother receive her little one, and the creche is silent till to-morrow.

It is pretty to hear of;baby Stella. She crows with delight- her morning welcome to nurse, joins her happy little fellows, but tewitids night becomes fretful, waiting for the mother arms, into which she leaps; as soon, as .they open for her. One might have thought that the babies. would like' to stay together always. Sister Hannah recalls the &tory of a French '.creche,, where each night the babies were weighed. One little fellow began to whimper. Nurse did not understand the new: sign. But she chanced to glance at/his card. He had not been through his customary weighing. This done, be was happy again. So much for even baby habits.

During its few weeks of life the creche in Grey-street has proved amply that the need for it existed! There* have been, fioin 12 to 15 babies -daily, from Monday till Saturday, on which day the numbers are highest, on account of mothers having then much office and shop ckaiu'-Jg work. Sixpence a day per baby is the charge, but to women with moTe than one child and use rent to pay for, this is a heavy tax. The.sisters would like to, he able to have 20 children at threepence \ifv head. This brings me to Osa consideration of ways and means. It .s good ' o hear of the kindness already by Mine Aucklanders. They subscribed £50 to "establish the creche, and* completely furnished the cottage. Groceries have" been giw.n, meat, milk, bread, and thoughtful wives'have sent jam, dripping, and such from their stores. But the dirty' little cot tegs had to be relined. cleanly outhouses built, water and gas laid en j.arid so the £50. went. There is a rent of 12s 6d (an index of the rate of four rooms below the level of Grey-street), two, nurses have to be paid, and in the future provisions' will be always needed. Donations cannot ha aeked for all the time. It would scum then that if an assured income of, say, one hundred -pounds, a year could be allotted from some such trust as the Dilworth estate, and a Government subsidy added to that, the little baby playground would have a happy future. - The sight of those chubby bady faces and the sound of their merrymaking are ample excuses for the suggestion; for there, if anywhere, is the opportunity given for a good start in the battle with the world. "Mothers c.mi go to work, secure in th<' knowledge of loving fending, and the v;u.e, which springs up • over from the poorer quarters, inns';; be benefited by having its babies fed and cared for.

Anyone who knows aught of our slum life must, feel thankful that there is a chance for the. litth ones of ii? city if they can-he sent to warm bright place, where good food and clean surroundings arc given thorn for, nine hours or more., But if the /benefit is to be far reaching, the creche should not bo hampered by. 100 sun" quarters, and by the anxiety of ways arid meane. If there is ' any, slightest doubt of the good being done by the. institution, it can be settled in two minutes by a peep at those innocents, clean and bonnyV at their play, warm and cosy in their sleep, trustful and as yet unwing of the sordid life ''