HARD TIMES FOR POETS.
True to her word, Nyoda brought it about that Migwan might use the
typewriter which belonged to her landlady, and every evening after her
lessons were learned she worked diligently to master the keys. In a week
or so she managed to copy her story and sent it out again. It came back
as promptly as before, with the same kind of rejection slip. She sent it
to another magazine and began writing a new one. She worked feverishly,
and far beyond her strength. The room where the typewriter was was
directly below Nyoda's sitting room, and hearing the machine still
rattling after ten o'clock one night she calmly walked in and pulled
Migwan away from the keys. Migwan protested. "It's past closing time,"
said Nyoda firmly.
"But I must finish this page," said Migwan.
"You must nothing of the kind," said Nyoda, forcing Migwan into her
coat. "'Hold on to Health' does not mean work yourself to death.
Hereafter you stop writing at nine o'clock or I will take the typewriter
away from you."
"Oh, mayn't I stay until half past nine?" asked Migwan coaxingly.
"No, ma'm," said Nyoda emphatically. "Nine o'clock is the time. That's a
bargain. As long as you keep your part of it you may use the typewriter,
but as soon as you step over the line I go back on my part. Now
remember, 'No checkee, no shirtee.'" And Migwan perforce had to submit.
The stories came back as fast as they were sent out, and Migwan began to
have new sidelights on the charmed life supposedly led by authors and
authoresses. The struggle to get along without getting into debt was
becoming an acute one with the Gardiner family. Tom delivered papers
during the week and helped out in a grocery store on Saturday, and his
earnings helped slightly, but not much. Midwinter taxes on two houses
ate up more than two weeks' income. With almost superhuman ingenuity
Migwan apportioned their expenses so the money covered them. This she
had to do practically alone, for her mother was as helpless before a
column of figures as she would have been in a flood. Meat practically
disappeared from the table. The big bag of nuts which Tom had gathered
in the fall and which they had thought of only as a treat to pass around
in the evening now became a prominent part of the menu. Dried peas and
beans, boiled and made into soup, made their appearance on the table
several times a week. Cornbread was another standby. Long years
afterward Migwan would shudder at the sight of either bean soup or
cornbread. She nearly wore out the cook book looking for new ways in
which to serve potatoes, squash, turnips, onions and parsnips.
She soon discovered that most provisions could be bought a few cents
cheaper in the market than in the stores, so every Saturday afternoon
she made a trip downtown with a big market basket and bought the week's
supply of butter, eggs and vegetables. At first the necessity for
spending carfare cut into her profits, but she got around this in an
adroit way that promised well for her future ability to handle her
affairs to the best advantage. She tried a little publicity work to
swing things around to suit her purpose. She simply exalted the joys of
marketing until the other Winnebagos were crazy to do the family
marketing, too. As soon as Gladys caught the fever her object was
accomplished, for Gladys took all the girls to market in her father's
big car and brought all their purchases home. So Migwan accomplished her
own ends and gave the Winnebagos a new opportunity to pursue knowledge
at the same time.
At Christmas time she had also fallen back on her ingenuity to produce
the gifts she wished to give. There was no money at all to be spent for
this purpose. Migwan took a careful stock of the resources of the house.
The only promising thing she found was a leather skin which Hinpoha had
given her the summer before for helping her write up the weekly Count in
Hiawatha meter, which was outside of Hinpoha's range of talents. She
considered the possibilities of that skin carefully. It must yield seven
articles--a present for each of the Winnebagos. She decided on book
covers. She wrote up seven different incidents of the summer camping
trip in verse and copied them with the typewriter on rough yellow
drawing paper, thinking to decorate each sheet. But Migwan had little
artistic ability and soon saw that her decorations were not beautiful
enough to adorn Christmas gifts. After spoiling several pages she gave
up in disgust and threw the spoiled pages into the grate. The next
morning she was cleaning out the grate and found the pieces of paper,
only partially burned around the edges. She suddenly had an idea. The
fire had burned a neat and artistic brown border around the writing. Why
not burn all her sheets around the edges? Accordingly she set to work
with a candle, and in a short time had her pages decorated in an odd and
original way which could not fail to appeal to a Camp Fire Girl. Then
she pasted the irregular pieces of yellow paper on straight pages of
heavy brown paper, which brought out the burned edges beautifully. On
the cover of each book she painted the symbol of the girl for whom it
was intended, and on the inside of the back cover she painted her own.
The Winnebagos were delighted with the books and took greater pride in
showing them to their friends than they did their more expensive
presents.
That piece of ingenuity was bread cast on the water for Migwan. Nyoda
came to her one day while she was working her head off on the
typewriter. "Could the authoress be persuaded to desist from her labors
for a while?" she asked, tiptoeing around the room in a ridiculous
effort to be quiet, which convulsed Migwan.
"Speak," said Migwan. "Your wish is already granted."
Nyoda sat down. "You remember that cunning little book you made me for
Christmas?" she asked. Migwan nodded. "Well," continued Nyoda, "I was
showing it to Professor Green the other night and he was quite carried
away with it. He has a quantity of notes he took on a hunting trip last
fall and wants to know if you will make them into a book like that for
him. There will be quite a bit of work connected with it, as all the
material will have to be copied on the typewriter and arranged in good
order, and he is willing to pay two and a half dollars for your
services. Would you be willing to do it?"
Would she be willing to do it? Would she see two and a half dollars
lying in the street and not pick it up? The professor's notes were
speedily secured and she set to work happily to transform them into an
artistic record book. Her sister Betty grumbled a good deal these days
because she was asked to do so much of the housework. Before Migwan took
to typewriting at night Betty had been in the habit of staying out of
the house until supper was ready, and then getting up from the table and
going out again immediately, leaving Migwan to get supper and wash the
dishes. It was easier to do the work herself than to argue with Betty
about it, and if she appealed to her mother Mrs. Gardiner always said,
"Just leave the dishes and I'll do them alone," so rather than have her
mother do them Migwan generally washed and wiped them alone. But now
that she was working so hard she needed the whole afternoon to get her
lessons in, and insisted that Betty should help get supper and wipe
dishes afterwards. For once Mrs. Gardiner took sides with Migwan and
commanded Betty to do her share of the work. In consequence Betty
developed a fierce resentment against Migwan's literary efforts, and
taunted her continually with her failure to make anything of it. Since
she had been working on Professor Green's book Migwan had done nothing
at all in the house, and her usual Saturday work fell to Betty.
Mrs. Gardiner was not feeling well of late, and could do no sweeping, so
Betty found herself with a good day's work ahead of her one Saturday
morning. Instead of playing that the dirt was a host of evil sprits, as
Migwan did, which she could vanquish with the aid of her magic broom,
Betty went at it sullenly and with a firm determination to do as little
as possible and get through just as quickly as she could. She made up
her mind that when Migwan went to market in the afternoon she would go
along with her in the automobile. So by going hastily over the surface
of things she got through by three o'clock, and when Gladys called for
Migwan, Betty came running out too, with her coat and hat on, dressed in
her best dress.
"Where are you going?" asked Migwan.
"Along with you," answered Betty.
"I'm afraid we can't take you," said Migwan; "there isn't enough room."
"Oh, I'll squeeze in," said Betty lightly. Now seven girls with market
baskets in addition to the driver are somewhat of a crowd, and there
really was no room for Betty in the machine. Besides, Betty was a great
tease and the girls dreaded to have her with them, so no one said a word
of encouragement.
"You can't come, and that is all there is to it," said Migwan rather
crossly. She was in a hurry to be off and get the marketing done. Betty
stamped her foot, and snatching Migwan's market basket, she ran around
the corner of the house with it. Migwan ran after her, and forcibly
recovering the basket, hit Betty over the head with it several times.
Then she jumped into the automobile and the driver started off, leaving
Betty standing looking after the rapidly disappearing car and working
herself into a terrible temper. She ran into the house and slammed the
door with such a jar that the vases on the mantel rattled and threatened
to fall down. She threw her hat and coat on the floor and stamped on
them in a perfect fury. On the sitting room table lay the pages of the
book which Migwan was making for Professor Green. The edges were already
burned and they were ready to be pasted on the brown mat. Betty's eyes
suddenly snapped when she saw them. Here was a fine chance to be
revenged on Migwan. With an exclamation of triumph she seized the
leaves, tore them in half and threw them into the grate, standing by
until they were consumed to ashes, and laughing spitefully the while.
Migwan came in briskly with her basket of provisions. Betty looked up
slyly from the book she was reading, but said not a word. Migwan went
into the sitting room and Betty heard her moving around. "Mother,"
called Migwan up the stairway, "where did you put the pages of my book?
I left them on the sitting room table."
"I didn't touch them," replied her mother; "I haven't been downstairs
since you went out."
"Betty," said Migwan sternly, "did you hide my work?" Betty laughed
mockingly, but made no reply. "Make haste and give them back," commanded
Migwan. "I have no time to waste."
Betty still maintained a provoking silence and Migwan began looking
through the table drawers for the missing leaves. Betty watched her with
malicious glee. "You may look a while before you find them," she said
meaningly; "they're hidden in a nice, safe place."
Migwan stood and faced her, exasperated beyond endurance. "Betty
Gardiner," she said angrily, "stop this nonsense at once and tell me
where those pages are!"
"Well, if you're really curious to know," answered Betty, smiling
wickedly, "I'll tell you. They're _there_" and she pointed to the grate.
"Betty," gasped Migwan, turning white, "you don't mean that you've
burned them?"
"That's what I do mean," said Betty coolly. "I'll show you if you can
treat me like a baby."
Migwan stood as if turned to stone. She could hardly believe that those
fair pages, which represented so many hours of patient work, had been
swept away in one moment of passion. Blindly she turned, and putting on
her wraps, walked from the house without a word. It seemed to her that
Fate had decreed that nothing which she undertook should succeed.
Discouragement settled down on her like a black pall. With the ability
to do things which should set her above her fellows, she was being
relentlessly pursued by some strange fatality which marked every effort
of hers a failure. She walked aimlessly up street after street without
any idea where she was going, entirely oblivious to her surroundings.
Wandering thus, she discovered that she was in the park, and had come
out on the high bluff of the lake. She stood moodily looking down at the
vast field of ice that such a short time before had been tossing waves.
The lake, to all appearances, was frozen solid out as far as the
one-mile crib. There was a curious stillness in the air, as when the
clock had stopped, due to the absence of the noise made by the waves
dashing on the rocks. Nothing had ever appealed so to Migwan as did the
absolute silence and solitude of that frozen lake. Her bruised young
spirit was weary of contact with people, and found balm in this icy
desert where there was so sound of a human voice. As far as the eye
could see there was not a living being in sight. A skating carnival in
the other end of the park drew the attention of all who were abroad on
this Saturday afternoon, and kept them away from the lake front.
A desire to be enveloped in this solitude came over Migwan; to get her
feet off the earth altogether. She half slid and half climbed down the
cliff and walked out on the ice. Before her the grey horizon line
stretched vast and unbroken, and she walked out toward it, lost in
dreaming. Sometimes the floor under her feet was smooth and polished as
a pane of glass, and sometimes it was rough and covered with hummocks
where the water had frozen in the wind. In Migwan's fancy this was not
the lake she was walking on; it was one of the great Swiss glaciers.
Those grey clouds there, standing out against the black ones, they were
the mountains, and she was taking her perilous journey through the
mountain pass. The ice cracked slightly under her feet, but she did not
notice. She was a Swiss guide, taking a party of tourists across the
glacier. Underneath this floor of ice were the bodies of those travelers
who had fallen into the crevices. She was telling the tourists the
stories of the famous disasters and they were shuddering at her tale.
The ice cracked again under her feet, but her mind, soaring in flights
of fancy, took no heed.
Her imagination took another turn. Now she was Mrs. Knollys, in the
famous story, waiting for the body of her husband to be given up by the
glacier. The long years of waiting passed and she stood at the foot of
the glacier watching the miracle unfold before her eyes. The glacier was
making queer cracking noises as it descended, and it sounded as though
there was water underneath it. She could hear it lapping.
C-R-A-C-K! A sound rang out on the still air that startled Migwan like
the report of a pistol, followed immediately by another. She came to her
senses with a rush. With hardly a moment's warning the ice on which she
was standing broke away from the main mass and began to move. Struck
motionless by fright, she had not the presence of mind to jump back to
the larger field. A wave washed in between, separating her by several
feet from the solid ice. The cake she was on began to heave and fall
sickeningly. There was another cracking sound and the edge of the solid
body of ice broke up into dozens of floating cakes, that ground and
pounded each other as the waves set them in motion. Every drop of blood
receded from Migwan's heart as she realized what had happened. She
screamed aloud, once, and then knew the futility of it. Her voice could
not reach to the shore. Lake and sky and horizon line now mocked her
with their silence. The cake of ice, lurching and tipping, began
floating out to sea.
On this wintry afternoon Sahwah left the house in a far different mood
from that which had carried Migwan blindly over the ground. Her eyes
were sparkling with the joy of life and her cheeks were glowing in the
cold. She wore a heavy reefer sweater and a knitted cap. Under her arm
was her latest plaything--a pair of skis. By her side walked Dick
Albright, one of the boys in her class, whom she considered especially
good fun. Dick also had a pair of skis. The two of them were bound for
the park to practice "making descents" from the hillsides. Sahwah was
absolutely happy, and chattered like one of the sparrows that were
flocking on the lawns and streets. Her chief interest in life just now
was the school basketball team, of which she was a member. Soon, very
soon, would come the big game with the Carnegie Mechanics, which would
decide the championship of the city. Sahwah was the star forward for the
Washington High team, and it was no secret that the winning of that game
depended upon her to a great extent. Sahwah was the idol of the
athletically inclined portion of the school. Dick thought there never
was such a player--for a girl.
Sahwah was full of basketball talk now, and made shrewd comments on the
good and bad points of both teams, weighing the chances of each with
great care. "Mechanicals' center is shorter than ours; we have the
advantage there. One of their forwards is good and the other isn't, and
one of our guards is weak. On the whole, we're about evenly matched."
"Fine chance Mechanicals'll have with you in the game," said Dick.
"The only thing I'm afraid of," said Sahwah, with a thoughtful pucker,
"is Marie Lanning; you know, Joe Lanning's cousin. She's to guard me and
she's a head taller."
"Don't worry, you'll manage all right," said Dick. Sahwah laughed. It
was pleasant to be looked up to as the hope of the school. "If you only
don't get sick," said Dick.
"Don't be afraid," answered Sahwah. "I won't get sick. But if I don't
get my Physics notebook finished by the First of February I'll not be
eligible for the game, and that's no joke. Fizzy said nobody would get a
passing grade this month who didn't have that old notebook finished, and
you know what that means."
"There really isn't any danger of your not getting it in, is there?"
asked Dick breathlessly.
"Not if I keep at it," answered Sahwah, and Dick breathed easy again. To
allow yourself to be declared ineligible for a game on account of
studies when the school was depending on you to win that game would have
been a crime too awful to contemplate.
The snow on the hills in the park had a hard crust, which made it just
right for skiing. Sahwah and Dick made one descent after another,
sometimes tripping over the point of a ski and landing in a sprawling
heap, but more often sailing down in perfect form with a breathless
rush. "That last leap of yours was a beauty," said Sahwah admiringly.
"I think I'm learning," said Dick modestly.
"I 'stump' you to go down the big hill on the lake front," said Sahwah,
her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Dick knew what that particular hill was like, but, boylike, he could not
refuse a dare given by a girl. "Do you want to see me do it?" he said
stoutly. "All right, I will."
"Don't," said Sahwah, frightened at what she had driven him to do;
"you'll break your neck. I didn't really mean to dare you to do it." But
Dick had made up his mind to go down that cliff hill just to show Sahwah
that he could, and nothing could turn him aside now.
"Come along," he said; "I can make it." And he started off toward the
lake front at a brisk pace.
But when he had reached the top of the hill in question he stood still
and stared out over the lake. "Hello," he said in surprise, "there's
somebody having trouble out there on the ice." Sahwah came and stood
beside him, shading her eyes with her hand to see what was happening. At
that distance she did not recognize Migwan. "The ice is breaking!" cried
Dick, who was far-sighted and saw the girl on the floating ice cake.
Like a whirlwind he sped down the hillside, dropped over the edge of the
cliff like a plummet and shot nearly a hundred feet out over the glassy
surface of the lake. Without pausing an instant Sahwah was after him.
She had a dizzy sensation of falling off the earth when she made the
jump from the hillside, which was a greater distance than she had ever
dropped before, but it was over so quickly that she had no time to lose
her breath before she was on solid ground again and taking the long
slide over the lake. In a short time they reached the edge of the broken
ice.
"Migwan!" gasped Sahwah when she saw who the girl on the floating cake
was. They could not get very near her, as the edge of the solid mass was
continually breaking away, and there was a strip of moving pieces
between them and her. "Fasten the skis together and make a long pole,"
said Sahwah, "and then she can take hold of one end of it and we can
pull her toward us," said Sahwah.
"Good idea," said Dick, and proceeded to lash the long strips together
with the straps, aided by sundry strings and handkerchiefs.
Then there were several moments of suspense until Migwan came within
reach of the pole. She simply had to wait until she floated near enough
to grasp it, which the perverse ice cake seemed to have no intention of
doing. The right combination of wind and wave came at last, however, and
drove her in toward the shore. She was still beyond the end of the pole.
"Jump onto the next cake," called Sahwah. Migwan obeyed in fear and
trembling. It took still another jump before she could reach the
lifesaver. She was now separated from the broken mass at the edge of the
solid ice by about six feet. With Migwan clinging fast to the pole Dick
began to pull in gently, so as not to pull her off the ice, and the cake
began to move across this open space until it was close beside the
nearer mass of broken pieces. Then, supported by the improvised hand
rail, Migwan leaped from one cake to the next, and so made her way back
to the solid part. It was an exciting process, for the pieces tipped and
heaved when she stepped on them, and bobbed up and down, and some turned
over just as her feet left them.
"Eliza crossing the ice," said Sahwah, giggling nervously.
Migwan sank down exhausted when she felt the solid mass under her feet
and knew that the danger was over. She was chilled through and through,
and more than one wave had splashed over the floating ice while she was
on it and soaked her shoes and stockings. Sahwah took this in at a
glance. "Get up," she said sharply, "and run. Run all the way home if
you don't want to get pneumonia. It's your only chance." Taking hold of
her hands, Dick and Sahwah ran along beside her, making her keep up the
pace when she pleaded fatigue. More dead than alive she reached home,
but warm from head to foot. Sahwah rolled her in hot blankets and
administered hot drinks with a practiced hand. Neither Mrs. Gardiner nor
Betty were at home. Migwan soon dropped off to sleep, and woke feeling
entirely well. Thanks to Sahwah's taking her in hand she emerged from
the experience without even a sign of a cold.
With heroic patience and courage she began again the weary task of
typing and burning all the pages of Professor Green's book and finished
it this time without mishap. The money she received for it all went into
the family purse. Not a cent did she spend on herself.
Not long after this Migwan had a taste of fame. She had a poem printed
in the paper! It happened in this way. At the Sunbeam Nursery one
morning Nyoda saw her surrounded by a group of breathlessly listening
children and joined the circle to hear the story Migwan was telling. She
had apparently just finished, and the childish voices were calling out
from all sides, "Tell it again!" Nyoda listened with interest as Migwan,
with a solemn expression and impressive voice, recited the tragic tale
of the "Goop Who Wouldn't Wash":
Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn,
He was a Goop if there ever was one!
Slapped his small sister whene'er he could reach her,
Muddied the carpet, made mouths at the preacher,
Talked back to his mother whenever she chid,
Always did otherwise than he was bid;
Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn,
Manners he certainly had not a one!
O bad little Goops, wheresoe'er you may be,
Take heed what befell young Agricola G!
For Gunther Augustus (unlike you, I hope),
Had an inborn aversion to water and soap;
He fought when they washed him, he squirmed and he twisted,
He shrieked, scratched and wriggled until they desisted;
He would not be combed--it was no use to try--
O he was a Goop, they could all testify!
So Gunther went dirty--unwashed and uncombed,
With hands black as pitch through the garden he roamed;
When suddenly a monstrous black shadow fell o'er him,
And the Woman Who Scrubs Dirty Goops stood before him!
Her waist was a washcloth, her skirt was a towel,
She looked down at him with a horrible scowl;
One hand was a brush and the other a comb,
Her forehead was soap and her pompadour foam!
Her foot was a shoebrush, and on it did grow
A shiny steel nail file in place of a toe!
Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn,
He had a fright if he ever had one!
In a twinkling she seized him--Oh, how he did shriek!
And threw him headforemost right into the creek!
Rubbed soap in his eyes (Dirty Goops, O beware!),
And in combing the snarls pulled out handfuls of hair!
Scrubbed the skin off his nose, brushed his teeth till they bled,
Tweaked his ears, rapped his knuckles, and gleefully said,
"Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn,
There'll be a difference when I get done!"
After that young Agricola strove hard to see
How very, how heavenly good he could be!
Wiped his feet at the door, tipped his hat to the preacher,
Caressed his small sister whene'er he could reach her!
Stood still while they washed him and combed out his hair,
His garments he folded and laid on a chair!
Gunter Augustus Agricola Gunn,
He was a saint if there ever was one!
"Where did you get that poem?" asked Nyoda.
"I wrote it myself," answered Migwan.
"Good work!" said Nyoda; "will you give me a copy?"
Nyoda showed the poem to Professor Green and Professor Green showed it
to a friend who was column editor of one of the big dailies, and one
fine morning the poem appeared in the paper, with Migwan's full name and
address at the bottom, "Elsie Gardiner, Adams Ave." The Gardiners did
not happen to take that particular paper and Migwan knew nothing of it
until she reached school and was congratulated on all sides. Professor
Green, who had taken a great interest in Migwan since she had worked up
his hunting notes in such a striking style, and regarded her as his
special protégé, was anxious to have the whole school know what a gifted
girl she was. He had a conference with the principal, and as a result
Migwan was asked to read her poem at the rhetorical exercises in the
auditorium that day. When she finished the applause was deafening, and
with blushing cheeks and downcast eyes she ran from the stage. There
were distinguished visitors at school that day, representatives of a
national organization who had come to address the scholars, and they
came up to Migwan after she had read her poem to be introduced and offer
congratulations. Teachers stopped her in the hall to tell her how bright
she was, and the other pupils regarded her with great respect. Migwan
was the lion of the hour.
She hurried home on flying feet and danced into the house waving the
paper. "Oh, mother," she called, as soon as she was inside the door,
"guess what I've got to show you!" Her mother was not in the kitchen and
she ran through the house looking for her. "Oh, mother," she called,
"oh, moth--why, what's the matter?" she asked, stopping in surprise in
the sitting room door. Mrs. Gardiner lay on the couch, and beside her
sat the family doctor. Betty stood by looking very much frightened. Mrs.
Gardiner looked up as Migwan came in. "It's nothing," she said, trying
to speak lightly; "just a little spell."
"Mother has to go to the hospital," said Betty in a scared voice.
"Just a little operation," said Mrs. Gardiner hastily, as Migwan looked
ready to drop. "Nothing serious--very."
Migwan's hour of triumph was completely forgotten in the anxiety of the
next few days. Her mother rallied slowly from the operation, and it
looked as though she would have to remain in the hospital a long time.
It was impossible to meet this added expense from their little income,
and Migwan, setting her teeth bravely, drew the remainder of her college
money from the bank to pay the hospital and surgeon's bills. Then she
set to work with redoubled zeal to write something which would sell. So
far everything she had sent out had come back promptly. For a long time
certain advertisements in the magazines had been holding her attention.
They read something like this: "Write Moving Picture Plays. Bring $50 to
$100 each. We teach you how by an infallible method. Anybody can do it.
Full particulars sent for a postage stamp." Migwan had seen quite a few
picture plays, many of them miserably poor, and felt that she could
write better ones than some, or at least just as good. She wrote to the
address given in one of the advertisements, asking for "full
particulars." Back came a letter couched in the most glowing terms,
which Migwan was not experienced enough to recognize as a multigraphed
copy, which stated that the writer had noticed in her letter of inquiry
a literary ability well worth cultivating, and he would feel himself
highly honored to be allowed to teach her to write moving picture plays,
a field in which she would speedily gain fame and fortune. He would
throw open the gates of success for her for the nominal fee of thirty
dollars, with five dollars extra for "stationery, etc." His regular fee
was thirty-five dollars, but it was not often that he came across so
much ability as she had, and he considered the pleasure he would derive
from the correspondence course worth five dollars to him. Would she not
send the first payment of five dollars by return mail so that his
enjoyment might begin as soon as possible?
Migwan read the letter through with a beating heart until she came to
the price, when her heart sank into her shoes. To pay thirty dollars was
entirely out of the question. She wrote to several more advertisements
and received much the same answer from all of them. There was only one
which she could consider at all. This one offered no correspondence
course, but advertised a book giving all the details of scenario
writing, "history of the picture play, form, where to sell your plays,
etc., all in one comprehensive volume." The price of the book was three
dollars. Migwan hesitated a long time over this last one, but the subtle
language of the advertisement drew her back again and again like a
magnet, and finally overcame her doubts. "It will pay for itself many
times when I have learned to write plays," she reflected. So she took
three precious dollars from the housekeeping money and sent for the
book. She did not ask Nyoda's advice this time; somehow she shrank from
telling her about it.
In three days the book arrived. The "comprehensive volume" was a
paper-covered pamphlet containing exactly twenty-nine pages. It could
not have sold for more than ten or fifteen cents in a book store. The
first five pages were devoted to a description of the phenomenal sale of
the first edition of the book, two more enlarged upon the "unfillable
demand" of the motion picture companies for scenarios, while the
remainder of the book was given over to the "technique" of scenario
writing. Migwan read it through eagerly, and did gain an idea of the
form in which a play should be cast, although the information was meagre
enough. Three dollars was an outrageous price to pay for the book,
thought Migwan, but she comforted herself with the thought that by means
of it she would soon lift the family out of their difficulties. She set
to work with a cheery heart. Writing picture plays was easier than
writing stories on account of the skeleton form in which they were cast,
which made it unnecessary to strive for excellence of literary style.
She finished the first one in two nights and sent it off with high
hopes. The company she sent it to was listed in the book as "greatly in
need of one-reel scenarios, and taking about everything sent to them."
She was filled with a secret elation and went about the house singing
like a lark, until Betty, who had been moping like an owl since her
mother went to the hospital, was quite cheered up. "What are you so
happy about?" she asked curiously. "You act as if somebody had left you
a fortune."
"Maybe they have," replied Migwan mysteriously; "wait and see!"
Her joy was short-lived, however, for the play came back even more
promptly than the stories had. Undaunted, she sent it out again and
again. The reasons given for rejection would have been amusing if Migwan
had not felt so disappointed. One said there was insufficient plot; one
said the plot was too complicated; one said it was too long for a
one-reel, and the next said it was too short even for a split-reel. Two
places kept the return postage she had enclosed and sent the manuscript
back collect. Scenario writing became a rather expensive amusement,
instead of a bringer of fortune. In spite of all this, she kept on
writing scenarios, for the fascination of the game had her in its grip,
and she would never be satisfied until she succeeded. Lessons were
thrust into the background of her mind by the throng of "scene-plots,"
"leaders," "bust-scenes," "inserts," "synopses," etc., that flashed
through her head continually.
To write steadily night after night, after the lessons had been gotten
out of the way, was a great tax on her young strength. Nyoda was
inflexible about her stopping typewriting at nine o'clock, but she went
home and wrote by hand until midnight. Nyoda was over at the house one
afternoon when Migwan was settling down to get her lessons, and saw her
take a dose from a phial.
"What are you taking medicine for?" she asked.
"Oh, this is just something to tone me up," replied Migwan.
"What is it?" insisted Nyoda.
"It's strychnine," said Migwan.
"Strychnine!" said Nyoda in a horrified voice. "Who taught you to take
strychnine as a stimulant?"
"Mabel Collins did," answered Migwan. "She said she always took it when
she had a dance on for every night in the week and couldn't keep up any
other way, and it made her feel fine." Mabel Collins belonged to what
the class called the "fast bunch."
"I'll have a talk with Mabel Collins," said Nyoda with a resolute gleam
in her eye. "And, remember, no more of this 'tonic' for you. I knew
girls in college who took strychnine to keep themselves going through
examinations or other occasions of great physical strain, and they have
suffered for it ever since. If you are doing so much that you can't
'keep up' any other way than by taking powerful medicines, it is time
you 'kept down.' Fresh air and regular sleep are all the tonic you need.
You stay away from that typewriter for a whole week and go to bed at
nine o'clock every night. I'm coming down to tuck you in. Now remember!"
And with this solemn warning Nyoda left her.