Nyoda’s prophetic soul proved to be a true prophet, and there were
trying times to follow the establishment of Ophelia at Onoway House.
That very first night Nyoda woke with a strangling sensation to find
Ophelia sitting on her chest. “I want ter sleep in the bed wid yer,” she
said, in answer to Nyoda’s startled inquiry. “I’m afraid ter sleep
alone.” She had been trying to creep in between Nyoda and Gladys and
lost her balance, which accounted for her position when Nyoda woke up.
“But there’s nothing in the room to hurt you,” Nyoda said, reassuringly.
“It’s them hop-toads,” she wailed, stopping her ears against the pillow,
“they give me th’ pip with their everlastin’ screechin’. They sound
right under the bed.” Gladys woke up in time to hear her and offered to
take the cot herself and let Ophelia sleep with Nyoda.
The next morning Gladys made a hurried trip to town to buy Ophelia some
clothes, while Nyoda washed her hair, much to Ophelia’s disgust. The
curls were so matted that it was impossible to comb them out and there
was nothing left to do but cut them short. When all the foreign coloring
matter had been removed and the hair had begun to dry in the warm wind,
Nyoda stopped beside her in bewildered astonishment. On the top of her
head, just about in the center, there was a circular patch of light hair
about three inches in diameter. All the rest was black. “Ophelia,” said
Nyoda, looking her straight in the eyes, “how did you bleach the top of
your hair?”
“It’s a fib,” said Ophelia, politely, “I never bleached it.”
“Then somebody did,” said Nyoda.
“Didn’t neither,” contradicted Ophelia.
“We’ll see whether they did or not,” said Nyoda, “when the hair grows
out from the roots.”
Dressed in the pretty clothes Gladys bought for her she was not at all a
bad looking child, but her language and her knowledge of evil absolutely
appalled the dwellers at Onoway House. “Did yer old man beat yer up?”
she asked sympathetically of Mrs. Landsdowne, when that gentle lady came
to call. Mrs. Landsdowne had run into the barn door the day before and
had a bruise on her forehead.
Ophelia’s sins in the garden were too numerous to chronicle. When set to
weeding she pulled weeds and plants impartially, working such havoc in a
short time that she was forbidden to touch a single growing thing. Her
ignorance of everything pertaining to the country was only equalled by
her curiosity.
“What would happen to the cow if you didn’t milk her?” she demanded of
Farmer Landsdowne, as she watched him milking one day. “She’d bust, I
suppose,” she went on, answering her own question while Farmer
Landsdowne was scratching his head for a reply. “Say, are yer whiskers
fireproof?” she asked, scrutinizing his white beard with interest.
“Because if they ain’t yer don’t dast smoke that pipe. The Santa Claus
in Lefkovitz’s window told me so. Say, what do you do when they get
dirty?”
Leaving her alone in the barn for a few moments he heard a mighty
squawking and cackling and hastened to investigate. He found the old
setting hen running distractedly around one of the empty horse stalls,
frantically trying to get out, while Ophelia was holding the big rooster
on the nest with her one hand, in spite of the fact that he was flapping
his wings and pecking at her furiously. “He ought to do some of the
settin’,” she remarked, when taken to task for her act, “he ain’t doin’
nothin’ fer a livin’.”
The squash bugs had descended once more, and were making hay of the
squash bed while the sun shone, and the girls worked a whole, long weary
afternoon clearing the vines. As the bugs were picked off they were put
into tin cans to be destroyed. Tired to death and heartily sick of
handling the disagreeable insects the girls quit the job at sundown,
having just about cleared the patch. They gathered in Migwan’s big room
before supper to make some plans for the Winnebago Ceremonial Meeting
which was to be held at Onoway House on the Fourth of July. Ophelia
promptly followed them and demanded admittance. “You can’t come in,”
said Migwan rather crossly, for there were secrets being told which they
did not want her to hear.
Ophelia wandered off in search of amusement. Mr. Bob had fled at her
approach and was hiding under the porch, and Betty had been admitted to
the council of the Winnebagos, for Migwan and Nyoda had decided at the
beginning of the summer that if there was to be any peace with her she
would have to be a party to all their doings, and as she was to be put
into a Camp Fire Group in the fall she was given this opportunity of
learning to qualify for the various honors by watching the intimate
workings of the Winnebago group. Tom was over at the Landsdowne’s and
Mrs. Gardiner was getting supper and invited Ophelia to stay out of the
kitchen when she came down to see if there was any fun to be had there.
Ophelia had been allowed to help once or twice and had broken so many
dishes with her one-handed way of doing things that Mrs. Gardiner lost
all patience and refused to have her around.
Strolling out into the garden in her quest for something to do she came
upon the big tin pail containing all the squash bugs, which Migwan
intended taking over to Farmer Landsdowne for disposal. A mischievous
impulse seized her, and taking off the cover she emptied the bugs back
into the bed, where they crawled eagerly back to their interrupted feast
of tender leaves. When the prank was discovered Migwan sank wearily down
beside the patch she had tried so hard to save from destruction.
“Whatever possessed you?” said Nyoda, seizing Ophelia with the firm
determination of boxing her ears. But Ophelia shrank back with such
evident expectation of a blow that Nyoda loosened her hold.
“Well, ain’t yer goin’ ter punish me?” asked Ophelia, still eyeing her
warily for an unexpected attack, with the attitude of an animal at bay.
To her surprise there were no blows forthcoming, but she was ordered to
pick off all the squash bugs again, and before the job was done she had
plenty of time to regret her rash act. All that beautiful long summer
evening, when the girls were on the front porch playing games and
shouting with laughter, she sat in the squash bed, undoing the mischief
she had done. When bed time came she was told to sleep in the cot by
herself, and Gladys and Nyoda took no notice of her at all, whispering
secrets to each other in bed with never a word to her. The next morning
she was awakened at four o’clock and set to work again, and so missed
the merry breakfast with the family. Gladys had promised to take her to
town in the machine that day, but, of course, this pleasure was
forfeited, as the beetles were not yet all picked off. The family was
all invited over to the Landsdowne’s for supper that night, but by four
o’clock Ophelia realized with a pang of disappointment that she would
not even be through by five. Accustomed as she was to brutal treatment,
this was the worst punishment she had ever experienced, but she realized
that she deserved it and was gamely paying the price without a murmur.
When Migwan came out shortly after four and helped her so that she would
be done in time to go to Farmer Landsdowne’s with the others her
penitence was complete.
Preparations for the big Fourth of July Council meeting were going
forward apace. It was to be a house party, they decided, and the other
three Winnebagos, Nakwisi, Chapa and Medmangi, were to be invited to
spend the night. Sleeping quarters caused some debate, when Sahwah had a
brilliant idea. “Let’s build a tepee,” she said, “and all sleep on the
ground inside of it with our feet toward the center. Then we can hold
the Council Fire in there and dance a war dance around the fire and make
shadows on the sides to scare the natives.” No sooner said than begun.
The front lawn was chosen as the site of the tepee, as that was the only
spot big enough. Dick, Tom and Mr. Landsdowne set the poles in a circle
to make the supporting framework, and the girls made the covering of
heavy sail cloth, which fitted snugly over the poles and had an opening
in the center of the top, and another one lower down for the entrance.
When done it would easily accommodate fifteen or sixteen persons. An
iron kettle was sunk into the ground in the center of the tepee. This
would hold sticks of wood soaked in kerosene, which is the secret of a
quickly lighted council fire, and also the alcohol and salt mixture
which is an indispensable part of all ghost story telling parties. The
grass around the kettle was pulled up, leaving a ring of bare earth,
which would prevent accident from the fire spreading.
The whole thing was completed two days before the Fourth. A big sign,
WINNEBAGO MEDICINE LODGE, was hung over the entrance. Underneath it a
sign in smaller letters proclaimed that at the Fourth Sundown of the
Thunder Moon the big medicine man Face-Toward-the-Mountain would “make
medicine” in the lodge for the benefit of the Winnebago tribe and their
paleface friends. The “paleface friends” referred to were Mrs. Gardiner,
Betty and Tom and Ophelia, Mr. and Mrs. Landsdowne and Calvin Smalley,
who were invited to see the show.
“It’s a shame Aunt Phœbe and the Doctor have to miss it,” said Hinpoha.
It was rumored that a real Indian princess would be present at the
medicine making, i.e., Sahwah in her Indian dress that Mr. Evans had
sent her from Canada, and excitement ran high among the invited guests
as hint after hint trickled out as to the elaborateness of the
ceremonial, which was to eclipse anything yet attempted in that line by
the Winnebagos, which was saying a great deal. Migwan had been seen
doing a great deal of surreptitious writing of late and at bed time the
Winnebagos had taken to congregating in the big, back bedroom and
locking the doors, and soon there would issue forth sounds of much
talking and laughter, so that a really experienced listener would almost
suspect there was a play in process of rehearsal. “Let’s reh—you know,”
said Migwan to Gladys, when the last touches had been put on the tepee,
suddenly cutting her words short and making a hand sign to finish her
sentence.
“Do you mind if I don’t just now,” answered Gladys, “I have such a bad
headache I think I will lie down for a while. It must have been the sun
glaring on the white canvas.”
“I have one too,” said Hinpoha, “it must have been the sun. I’ll come
later when Gladys does,” she said to Migwan, with an aggravatingly
mysterious hand sign.
At supper time Ophelia refused to eat and moped in a manner quite
foreign to her. Her eyes were red and it looked as though she had been
crying. After supper she still sat by herself in a corner of the porch
and made no effort to trap the girls into telling their plans for the
Fourth as she had been doing all day. “Come and play Blind-Man’s-Buff on
the lawn,” called Migwan. Ophelia raised her head and looked at her
listlessly, but made no effort to join in the merry game.
“Don’t you feel well?” asked Nyoda, noting her languid manner. “Child,
what makes your eyes so red?” she said, turning Ophelia’s face toward
the light.
“I don’t know,” said Ophelia, wriggling out of her grasp, and putting
her head down on her knee.
“Come, let me put you to bed,” said Nyoda. “I’m afraid you’re going to
be sick.” In the morning Ophelia’s face was all broken out and Nyoda
groaned when she realized the truth. Ophelia had the measles. All
preparations for the Fourth of July Ceremonial had to be called off, and
the three girls in town telephoned not to come out. The sight of the
tepee and all the plans it suggested called out a wail of despair every
time the girls went out in the yard. On the morning of the Glorious
Fourth Gladys woke to find herself spotted like a leopard.
“That must be the reason why I had such a fearful headache the other
day,” she said, as she took her place with the other sick one, half
amused and wholly disgusted at herself for having fallen a victim.
“I had a headache too,” said Hinpoha, in alarm, “I hope I’m not coming
down with them. I’ve had them once.”
“That doesn’t help much,” said Nyoda, “for I had them three times.”
Hinpoha’s fears were realized, and by night there was a third case
developed. And so, instead of a grand council on the Fourth of July
there was real medicine making at Onoway House. None of the sufferers
were very ill, although they must remain prisoners, and they had such a
jolly time in the “contagious disease ward” that Migwan and Sahwah, who
were finding things rather dull on the outside, wished fervently that
they had taken the measles too.
As soon as the three invalids were pronounced entirely well there was a
celebration held in honor of the occasion in the tepee. At sundown Nyoda
went around beating on a tin pan covered with a cloth in lieu of a
tom-tom, which was always the signal for the tribe to come together.
Tom, as runner, was dispatched to fetch the Landsdownes and Calvin
Smalley. When the tribe came trooping in answer to the call, followed by
the guests, they were marched in solemn file around the lawn and into
the tepee. Inside there was a fire kindled in the center, with a circle
of ponchos and blankets spread around it on the ground. “Bless my soul,
but this is cozy,” said Farmer Landsdowne, dropping down on a poncho and
stretching himself comfortably.
“Now, what shall we do?” asked Nyoda, who was mistress of ceremonies,
“play games or tell stories?”
“Tell stories,” begged Migwan, “we haven’t ‘wound the yarn’ for an age.”
“All right,” agreed Nyoda, “shall we do it the way several of the Indian
tribes do?”
“How do they do it?” asked Migwan.
“Well,” said Nyoda, “there is a tradition among certain tribes that if
anyone refuses to tell a story when he is asked he will grow a tail like
a donkey. Sometimes, however, they do not wait for Nature to perform
this miracle, but fasten a tail themselves onto the one who will not
entertain the crowd when he is bidden, and he must wear it until he
tells a story. Their way of asking one of their number to tell one is to
remark ‘There is a tail to you,’ as a delicate way of expressing the
fate that will be his if he refuses.”
“Oh, what fun!” cried Sahwah.
“And now Gladys,” said Nyoda, “‘there is a tail to you.’”
Gladys placed more wood on the fire, which was burning low, and returned
to her seat on the blanket. “Did I ever tell you,” she began, “about my
Aunt Beatrice? She and my Uncle Lynn were visiting here from the West
with my little cousin Beatrice, who was only six months old. They were
staying in a big hotel downtown. One night they went to a party, leaving
Beatrice in their room at the hotel in the care of her nurse. At the
party there was a fortune teller who amused the guests by reading their
palms. When it came my aunt’s turn the woman said to her, ‘You have had
one child, who is dead.’ Everybody laughed because they knew Aunt
Beatrice had never lost a baby, and little Beatrice was safe and sound
in the hotel that very minute. But it worried my aunt almost to death,
and she couldn’t enjoy herself the rest of the evening.
“Finally she said to my uncle, ‘I can’t stand it any longer, I must go
home,’ so they left the party just as the guests were sitting down to a
midnight supper, and everybody made fun of her for being such a fussy
young mother. When they got downtown they found the hotel in flames and
the streets blocked for a long distance around. Aunt Beatrice finally
broke through the fire lines and ran right past the firemen who tried to
keep her out, into the burning building, and fought her way up-stairs
through the smoke to her room, where she could hear a baby crying. She
was blind from the smoke and could hardly see where she was going, but
she picked up a rug from the floor, wrapped it around the baby and
carried her out in safety. When she got outside they found it was not
little Beatrice at all that she had saved, it was a strange baby. She
had mistaken the room up-stairs in the smoke and carried out someone
else’s child. The building collapsed right after she came out and no one
could go in any more. Beatrice and her nurse were lost in the fire.” A
murmur of horrified sympathy went around the circle in the tepee. “And,”
continued Gladys, “my Aunt Beatrice has never been herself since. She
can’t bear even to see a baby.”
“Is that the reason you wouldn’t let me bring Marian Simpson’s baby over
the day she left it with me to take care of?” asked Hinpoha. “I remember
you said your aunt was visiting you.”
“Yes, that was why,” said Gladys. “And now, Mr. Landsdowne,” she added,
“‘there is a tail to you!’”
Farmer Landsdowne stared thoughtfully into the fire for a moment, and
then a reminiscent smile began to wrinkle the corners of his eyes.
“Would you like to hear a story about the old house?” he asked.
“You mean Onoway House?” asked Migwan.
Mr. Landsdowne nodded. “Only it seems strange to be calling it ‘Onoway
House.’ It has always been known as ‘Waterhouse’s Place,’ because old
Deacon Waterhouse built it. Well, like most old houses, there are
different stories told about it, but whether they are true or not, no
one knows. People are so apt to believe anything they want to believe.
Well, I started out to tell you the story about the gas well. But before
I tell you about the gas well I suppose I ought to tell you about the
Deacon’s son. Mind you, the things I am telling you are only what I have
heard from the folks around here; I never knew Deacon Waterhouse. He was
dead and the house empty before the farm was split up, and it wasn’t
until the part that I now own was offered for sale that I ever came into
this neighborhood. Well, to return to the Deacon’s son. They say that
there never was a finer looking young fellow than Charley Waterhouse. He
was a regular prince among the country boys. But he didn’t care a rap
about farming. All he wanted to do was read; that and take the horse and
buggy and drive to town. The old Deacon was terribly disappointed, of
course, for Charley was his only son, and he couldn’t see that the boy
wasn’t cut out to be a farmer. He railed about his love of books and
wouldn’t give him money for schooling. Charley stood it until he was
eighteen and then he ran away, after forging the Deacon’s name to a
check. The folks around here never saw him again. Mrs. Waterhouse died
of a broken heart, they say. They also say,” he added with a twinkle in
his eye, “that she died before she had her attic cleaned, and that her
ghost comes back at night and sets the old furniture straight up there.”
Migwan and Hinpoha exchanged glances.
“Now about the gas well,” resumed Mr. Landsdowne. “The Deacon was
digging for water on the farm. The old well had dried up during a long,
hot spell and he was bound to go deep enough this time. Down they
went—two, three hundred feet, and still no good water. The ground had
turned into slate and shale. The well digger lit a match down in the
hole when suddenly there was a terrific explosion which caved in the
sides of the well and all the dirt which was piled around the outside
slid in again, completely filling it up. A vein of gas had been struck.
That very day the Deacon received word that his son was in San
Francisco, dying, and wanted to see him. He forgot his anger over
Charley’s disgrace and started west that very night. He never came back.
He stayed in San Francisco a whole year and then died out there. While
he was there he mentioned the gas well to several people, or they say he
did, and that’s how the story got round. But if such a thing did happen,
there was never any trace of it afterward. Personally I do not believe
it ever happened. But superstitious folks around here say they can still
hear the buried well digger striking with his pick against the earth
that covers him.”
“Two ghosts at Onoway House!” said Nyoda, “we are uncommonly well
supplied,” and the girls shivered and drew near together in mock fear.
Thus, with various stories the evening wore away, until Farmer
Landsdowne, looking at his big, old-fashioned silver watch with a start,
remarked that he should have been in bed an hour ago, whereupon the
company broke up. Calvin Smalley went home reluctantly. That evening
spent by the fire in the tepee had been a sort of wonderland to him,
unused as he was to family festivities of any kind.
Nyoda lingered after the rest had gone to see that the fire in the tepee
was properly extinguished. As she watched the glowing embers turn black
one by one she became aware of a figure standing in the doorway. The
moonlight fell directly on it and she could see that it was robed in
flowing white, and instead of a face there was a hideous death’s head.
Horribly startled at first she recovered her composure when she
remembered that she was living in a household which were given to
playing jokes on each other. Flinging up her hands in mock terror, she
recited dramatically,
“Art thou some angel, some devil, or some ghost?” The figure in the
doorway never moved. Nyoda picked up the thick stick with which she had
stirred the fire and rushed upon the ghost as if she intended to beat it
to a pulp. It flung out its arm, covered with the flowing drapery, and
Nyoda dropped her weapon and staggered back against the side of the
tepee, sneezing with terrible violence, her eyes smarting and watering
horribly. When the force of the paroxysm had spent itself and she could
open her eyes again the ghost had vanished. Blind and choking, she made
her way back to the house, intent on finding out who the ghost was, who
had thrown red pepper into her eyes. That it was none of the dwellers at
Onoway House was clear. The girls were already partly undressed, Ophelia
was in bed, and Tom was taking a foot-bath in the kitchen under the
watchful supervision of his mother to see that he got himself clean. A
chorus of indignation rose on every side at the outrage, when Nyoda had
told her tale.
“Could it have been Calvin Smalley?” somebody asked. But this no one
would believe. The boy was too gentle and manly, and too evidently
delighted with his new neighbors to have done such a dastardly deed.
Then who had dressed up as a ghost and thrown red pepper at Nyoda in the
tepee?