The Camp Fire Girls on the Open Road Part 10

Several times during the evening she tried to tell poor Very Seldom that the Legend of the White Buffalo, which proved his point so conclusively, was not a legend at all, but her own composition, but each time the words choked her. The little ex-Professor's satisfaction was so great and his happiness so supreme that she didn't have the heart to blot it out. The secret was hers. Everybody in college believed that legend to have come from the collection of Joseph Latoka. All the evening she debated with herself whether or not she should tell, or let the fake legend go down on record. In the end the professor's happiness won the day and she decided not to mar his almost childish glee in his discovery.

"What does it matter, after all?" she thought. "About three-fourths of the things that are written about Indians aren't true. n.o.body will read his old monograph anyway, so no harm will be done. If it gives him so much pleasure to think he's discovered something, why spoil it all?" The whole matter seemed so trivial to Migwan that it wasn't worth fussing about. Just what difference did it make to the world, especially at this time, whether the eastern Indians of the United States had ever visited the western plains or not? It seemed about as important as whether the Fourth Emperor of the Ming Dynasty had carrots for dinner or parsnips. So she went home without revealing the origin of the Legend of the White Buffalo.

She thought the incident was decently interred, and had forgotten all about it, when--pop! out came Jack-in-the-box once more. Along in March came the celebrated lecturer on Indian costumes, Dr. Burnett. Handbills announcing his lecture were distributed all over town a week before his coming. The public was to be admitted and half the proceeds were to go to the library fund. Migwan picked up one of the handbills and glanced casually at the subject of the lecture. Then her hair nearly turned green. It was "The Legend of the White Buffalo," based on the book of the late Professor Jeremiah Selden!

The first fact that struck Migwan was that Very Seldom was dead, which came as a shock of surprise. Poor Very Seldom! He had found a home at last. But before he went he had had his inning and had died happy that he had contributed an important link to the chains of Indian History.

Then Migwan realized what a horrible mess she had started by writing that legend and keeping still about it. If anybody ever found out about it now, Dr. Burnett's reputation would be ruined.

An hour before the lecture was to begin found Migwan sitting in the parlor of the hotel waiting for Dr. Burnett to come down in answer to the note she sent up with a bellboy. He came presently, a long-haired, Van d.y.k.e-y sort of man, who smiled genially at her and inquired affably what he could do for the charming miss.

"If you please," said Migwan breathlessly, "could you give some other lecture just as well?"

"Could I give some other lecture just as well?" repeated Dr. Burnett in perplexity.

"Yes," Migwan went on desperately, trying to get it over with quickly, "could you? You see, the Legend of the White Buffalo isn't a legend at all."

"The Legend of the White Buffalo _isn't_ a legend!" repeated Dr. Burnett again, looking at Migwan as if he thought she was not in her right mind.

"Pray, what is it?"

"It's--it's a fake," said Migwan.

"A fake!" exclaimed Dr. Burnett, in astonishment. "And how do you know it is a fake?"

"Because I wrote it myself," said Migwan, trying to break the news as gently as possible, "because it was simply pouring, and Harriet had a sore throat."

"You wrote it yourself because it was simply pouring and Harriet had a sore throat?" repeated Dr. Burnett, now acting as if he were sure she was out of her mind.

Then Migwan explained.

"But, my dear," said Dr. Burnett, "you _couldn't_ have written that legend. No white man could have invented it. It is the very breath and spirit of the Indian. In it the Soul of the Savage stands revealed."

"But I _did_," insisted Migwan, and finally succeeded in convincing him that she was telling the truth.

Dr. Burnett usually spent from one to three months preparing a new lecture. He prepared one that night in an hour that knocked the s.h.i.+ne out of all his previous ones. His speech ent.i.tled, "What Chance Has a Man When a Woman Takes a Hand" brought down the house. He told the story of the fake legend, and the audience was alternately laughing at the neat way Migwan had taken everybody in and weeping at the way she wouldn't spoil poor Very Seldom's pleasure.

Migwan was the heroine of the hour. The whole college sought her acquaintance forthwith. Of course, they found out all about the Winnebagos, and how Migwan came to know so much about Indian lore, and Hinpoha and I, being Winnebagos, too, came in for our share of the glory.

Our humble apartment is filled to overflowing all day long with girls who want to make Migwan's acquaintance and casually drop in on us in the hope of meeting her in our chamber. It is great to be fellow-Winnebago with a celebrity.

But I haven't told you all yet. The day after the lecture Dr. Burnett had a solemn conference with that portion of the English Department which was so fortunate to have Migwan in its cla.s.ses, after which Migwan was called in. She went with a kind of scary feeling because she thought Dr. Burnett might be going to have her arrested for perpetrating the fake, but instead of that she was informed that she showed such budding talent in composition and had such a positive genius for portraying the soul of the Indian that he wanted her to work with him in his research work after she graduated from college. She is to make a grand tour with him among the real Indians on the reservations and get them to tell tales of the old days as they remember them from the legends of their fathers and then she is to write them down to be published in a book.

Just imagine it! There is Migwan's future all cut out for her with a cookie cutter, all because she was too lazy to go across the campus in the rain and get a real legend for a sick friend. Isn't life queer?

Famously yours, Gladys.

P. S. O Katherine, _mon amie_, why aren't you here? But from the tone of your last letters it seems that you have become reconciled to your lonely lot. So the "mysterious him" that came to you from out the Vast is teaching you French and History and reading Literature with you!

Katherine Adams, you sly puss, you'll be better educated yet than we!

SAHWAH TO KATHERINE

April 4, 19--.

Dearest K:

You don't need to think you're the only one having adventures with your work. Your little old Sahwah is a sure enough grown up young lady now, a real wage-earner, making her little track along the Open Road, and frequently stepping into mud holes and falling flat on her face. I'm "Miss Brewster" now, in a tailored suit and plain s.h.i.+rtwaist, ready to conquer the world with a notebook and typewriter. I finished my course at the business college early in February, and one day while I was in the last stages of completion as a stenographer and nearly ready to have a s.h.i.+pping tag pasted on me in the shape of a graduation certificate, I was summoned into the private office of Mr. Barrett, the head of the school.

I had a chill when the office girl brought me the message. There were only two or three things you were ever sent to Mr. Barrett for. One was failure to pay your tuition; another was doing so poorly in your work that you were a disgrace instead of a credit to the school; another was for "skipping school." A number of the girls were in the habit of cutting cla.s.ses after lunch several days in the week and either going to the matinee or running around town with boys from the school. Many complaints about this had come to Mr. Barrett from the teachers, until he got so that he sent for everyone who skipped and read them a stiff lecture. He is a very stern, austere man, and the whole school stands in dread of him.

I went over my list of sins when I was summoned to the office. My tuition was paid up until the end; there was no trouble there. It wouldn't be my lessons either; for, while I was far from being the eighth wonder of the world on the typewriter, I still had managed to stay in the "A" division since the first. But--here my hair began to stand on end--I had "skipped school" the afternoon before. Slim had come home from college to attend the funeral of his grandfather, and had called me up and invited me to go automobiling with him while he was waiting for his train to go back, and you can guess what happened to Duty. I just naturally skipped school and went with him. It was the first and only time I had skipped in my whole career, but I was evidently going to get my tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs for it. I went into the office with a sinking heart, for up until this time I had managed to keep in Mr. Barrett's good graces, and I did pride myself quite a bit on my unreproved state. But I made up my mind to take it like a good sport--I had danced and now I would pay the piper.

Having gone into the office in such a state of mind, I wasn't prepared for the shock when Mr. Barrett looked up from his desk and greeted me with a (for him) extremely amiable smile.

"Sit down, Miss Brewster," he said pleasantly, pulling up a chair for me beside his own.

I sat down. It was time, for my knees were giving away under me.

"Miss Brewster," Mr. Barrett began affably, "I have here"--and he picked up a paper on which he had made some notations--"a call for a stenographer which is a little out of the ordinary line." He paused to let that sink in.

"Yes, sir," I murmured respectfully. My heart began to beat freely again.

He wasn't going to lecture me about skipping school!

"Mrs. Osgood Harper," continued Mr. Barrett crisply, "telephoned me this morning personally, and asked if I had a young lady whom I could send her every day from nine until one to attend to her personal correspondence.

She is very particular about the kind of person she wants; it must be someone who is refined and educated, as well as a good stenographer, for a good deal of her work will be social correspondence. She also intimated that the girl must be--er, reasonably good looking."

He paused a second time and again I said meekly, "Yes, sir." There didn't seem to be anything else to say.

"I have carefully considered all the girls in the finis.h.i.+ng cla.s.s,"

continued Mr. Barrett, "and you seem to be the only one I could consider for the position. I know Mrs. Harper and know that in some ways she will be hard to work for. But the pay she offers is generous; better than you could do as a beginner in a commercial house, and the hours are excellent, nine to one, leaving your afternoons free. Besides that, there will be the advantage to yourself of coming in contact with such people as the Harpers, and the pleasure of working in such beautiful surroundings. You are a girl who will appreciate such things. You know who the Harpers are, of course?"

I had never heard of them, but I was quite willing to be enlightened. The Harpers, it seemed, were in the first boatload of settlers that landed on our town site; they had since acc.u.mulated such a fortune that it made Pike's Peak look like an ant hill; and no matter what string Mrs. Harper harped on, people were sure to sit still and listen. Now she desired a personal stenographer of maidenly form, and I, Sahwah the Sunfish, had been measured by the awe-inspiring Mr. Barrett and found fit.

My feelings as I came out of the office were far different from those with which I went in. I entered with a guilty droop; I came out with my head in the air. I hadn't dreamed of getting such a position to start with. I had pictured myself as beginning at the bottom in some big office and slowly working to the top. But to begin my career by doing the private work of Mrs. Osgood Harper! It seemed like some fairy tale. I tried to think of something to say to Mr. Barrett to thank him for having recommended me for the position, but the shock had sent my wits skylarking, and the only thing that came into my head was that song that we used to sing:

"Out of a city of six million people, why did you pick upon me?"

and that, of course, was impossible as a n.o.ble sentiment.

The next morning I set out on my Joyous Venture. The Osgood Harpers lived on the Heights in a great colonial house set up high on a hill and approached by long, winding walks. It was more than a mile from the street-car, but I enjoyed the walk through those beautiful estates. I couldn't have served a tennis ball in any direction without hitting a millionaire.

Mrs. Harper was a stout and tremendously impressive lady about forty years old. She had steely blue eyes that looked right through me until I began to have horrible fears that there was something wrong with my appearance and she would presently say that I would not do at all. But she didn't; all she said was, "So you are Miss Brewster, are you?" and motioned me to sit down at a writing table.

She had received me in a cozy little sitting room which opened out of her bedroom, and it seemed that this was to be my office. She started right in to lay out my work for me and I didn't have much time to look around at the beautiful furnis.h.i.+ngs. The work was far different from anything we had had in school, but very interesting, and I took to it from the start.

Mrs. Harper is chairman of countless committees, and secretary of several societies, and there were quant.i.ties of notices to send out to committee members, and letters to write to business men soliciting subscriptions to various funds and things like that, all to be written on heavy linen paper of finest quality, bearing the Harper monogram in embossed gold in the upper left-hand corner.

I worked away with a will and the morning hours flew. I would have worked right on past one o'clock without knowing it if there hadn't been an interruption. Shortly after noon the door opened and a girl of about seventeen walked in. She was extremely pretty; that is, at first glance she was. She was very fair, with bright pink cheeks and big blue eyes.

Her yellow hair was plastered down over her forehead in an exaggerated style, and monstrous pearl earrings dangled from her ears. She had evidently just come in from outdoors, for she wore an all mink coat and held a mink cap in her hand. Without a glance in my direction she began chatting to Mrs. Harper in a thin, nasal, high-pitched voice. I dropped my eyes and went on with my work. In a minute I could feel her staring at me.