THE HONOR OF THE WINNEBAGOS.
"For High Style use the Preterite,
For Common use the Past,
In compound verbal tenses
Put the Participle last.
The Perfect Tense with 'Avoir'
With the Subject must agree
(Or does this rule apply to the
Auxiliary 'to be'?)."
Migwan, in high spirits, resolved the rules in her French grammar into
poetry as she learned them. Regular lessons were gotten out of the way
as quickly as possible these days to give more time to the study of
history. And to Migwan studying history meant not merely the memorizing
of a number of facts attached to dates which might or might not stay in
her mind at the crucial time; it was the bringing to life of bygone
races and people, and putting herself in their places, and living along
with them the events described on the pages. Taking it in this way,
Migwan had a very clear and vivid picture of the things she was
learning, and her answers to questions showed such a thorough knowledge
of her subject that she was regarded as a "grind" at history, while the
truth was that she did less "grinding" than the rest of the class, who
merely memorized figures and facts without calling in the aid of the
imagination. So Migwan learned her new history and reviewed her old, and
was as happy as the day was long.
As the time approached for the examination she felt more sure of herself
every day. The long hours of patient study were about to be rewarded,
and she would bring honor to the Winnebagos by winning the Parsons
prize. That little point about bringing honor to the Winnebagos was
keenly felt by Migwan. Ever since Sahwah had covered herself with
undying glory in the game with the Carnegie Mechanics, Migwan felt a
longing to distinguish herself in some way also. Sahwah's fame was
widespread, and when any of the Winnebagos happened to mention that they
belonged to that particular group, some one was sure to say, "The
Winnebago Camp Fire? Oh, yes, it was one of your number who won the
basketball championship for the school by making a record jump for the
ball, wasn't it?" The whole group lived in the reflected glory of Sahwah
the Sunfish. Now, thought Migwan resolutely, they would have something
else to be proud about. In the future people would say, "The Winnebagos?
Oh, yes, it was one of your girls who carried off the Parsons prize in
history!"
Migwan thrilled with the joy of it, and plunged more deeply into the
pages before her. She was a different girl nowadays from the pale,
anxious-faced one who had sat up night after night during the winter,
desperately trying to add something to the scanty income by the labor of
pen and typewriter. Now she was always happy and sparkling, and
performed her household tasks with such a will that her languid mother,
lying and watching her, was likewise filled with an ambition to be up
and doing. She was never cross with Betty these days, no matter how many
fits of temper that young lady indulged in. Professor Green often
stopped her in the hall to ask her how she was getting along in her
preparation, and offered to lend her reference books which would help
her in her study. Everybody seemed to be anxious for her to win the
prize, and willing to give her all the help possible.
Migwan did not make the mistake of studying until late the night before
the examination. She went to bed at nine o'clock, so as to be in fit
condition. When she closed her books after the final study she knew all
that was to be learned from them. The examination was held in the senior
session room after the close of school. Five pupils participated. One
was Abraham Goldstein, another was George Curtis, who liked Migwan very
well and hated Abraham cordially; the other two were girls. They all sat
in one row of seats; Migwan first, then George, then Abraham, and behind
him the two girls. The lists of questions were given out. "I hardly need
to say," said the teacher in attendance, "that the honor system will be
in force during this examination."
Migwan made an effort to still the wild beating of her heart and read
the questions through. They all appeared easy to her, as she had had
such a thorough preparation. George Curtis groaned to himself as he
looked them over, for there were two which he saw at a glance he would
be unable to answer. Abraham read his and looked thoughtful. Migwan
wrote rapidly with a sure and inspired pen until she came to the last
question. There she halted in dismay. The question was in the Ancient
History group and read, in part, "Who was the invader of Israel before
Sennacherib?" For the life of her she could not think of the name of the
Assyrian invader. Last night the whole thing had been as clear as
crystal in her mind. She thought until the perspiration stood out on her
forehead; she tried every method of suggestion that she knew, but all in
vain; the name still eluded her. While she was trying so desperately to
recall the name, George Curtis in the seat behind was watching her. By
chance he had caught a glimpse of her paper, and saw the figure 10
followed by an empty space, so he knew that it was the tenth question
she was having trouble with. This happened to be one he knew and he had
just written it out in a bold, black hand. He was out of the race for
the prize, for there were two whole questions left out on his sheet. By
certain signs of distress from the two girls behind him he knew that
they, too, were out, and it now lay between Migwan and Abraham. Abraham
was not very well liked by the boys since the affair of the statue.
George despised him utterly, and he could not bear to think of his
winning that prize.
He watched his chance. It came at last. The teacher dropped her pencil
behind her desk, and in the instant when she was picking it up he
reached out and pulled Migwan's hair sharply. When she turned around in
surprise he framed with his lips the name "Sargon." She understood it
perfectly. Then came a mental struggle which matched Sahwah's terrific
physical one that day in camp. On one side college stood with its doors
wide open to welcome her; she heard the plaudits of her friends who
expected and wanted her to win the prize; she saw the joy in her
mother's face when she heard the news; she heard the heartfelt
congratulations of Nyoda and the Winnebagos who would share in her
glory. On the other hand she heard just five ugly words echoing in her
ears. "_You didn't win it honestly!"_ She tried to stifle the voice of
science. "I knew it perfectly all the time," she said to herself, "and
it only slipped my mind for an instant." "But you forgot," said the
voice, "and if he hadn't told you you wouldn't have known."
Miserably she argued the question back and forth. It she didn't win the
prize Abraham would, and he could well afford to go to college without
the money. "He'd cheat if he had the chance," she told herself. "That
doesn't help you any," pricked the accuser. "You talk about the honor of
the Winnebagos. If you use that information you would be dishonoring the
Winnebagos! You're a cheat, you're a cheat," it said tauntingly, and a
little sparrow on the window sill outside took up the mocking refrain,
"Cheat! Cheat!" Stung as though some one had pointed an accusing finger
at her, Migwan flung down her pen in despair and resolutely blotted her
paper. She handed in her examination with the last half of the last
question unanswered, and fled from the room with unseeing eyes. And in
the instant when George was trying to tell Migwan the answer, Abraham,
who had also forgotten the name of Sargon, glanced over toward George's
paper and saw it written out in his easily readable hand. Without a
qualm he wrote it down on his own paper with a triumphant flourish.
There was great surprise throughout the school a few days later when the
grades of the examination were made public: Elsie Gardiner, 95; Abraham
Goldstein, 98, winner of the Parsons cash prize of $100.
Migwan felt like a wanderer on the face of the earth after losing that
history prize. She shrank from meeting the friends who had so
confidently expected her to win it, and her own thoughts were too
painful to be left alone with. If Hinpoha had been wandering in the
Desert of Waiting for the past few months, Migwan was sunk deep in the
Slough of Despond. She was at the age when death seemed preferable to
defeat, and she wished miserably that she would fall ill of some mortal
disease, and never have to face the world again with failure written on
her forehead. "Oh, why," she wailed in anguish of spirit, as has many an
older and wiser person when confronted with this same unanswerable
question, "why was I given this glimpse of Paradise only to have the
gate slammed in my face?" That spectre of the winter before, the belief
that success would never be hers, gripped her again with its icy hand.
And was it any wonder? Twice now the means to enter college had been
within her reach, and twice it had been swept away in a single day. But
while Migwan was thus learning by hard experience that there is many a
slip twixt the cup and the lip, she was also to learn from that same
schoolmistress the truth of the old saying, "Three times and out." In
the meantime, however, the skies were as gray as the wings of the
Thunderbird, and life was like a jangling discord struck on a piano long
out of tune.
But even if we _would_ rather be dead than alive, as long as we _are_
alive there remain certain duties which have to be performed regardless
of the state of our emotional barometers, and Migwan discovered with a
start one day that there were at least a dozen letters in her top bureau
drawer waiting to be answered. "It's a shame," she said to herself, as
she looked them over. "I haven't written to the Bartletts since last
November." The Bartletts were the parents of the little boy who was
traced by the aid of her timely snapshot. She opened Mrs. Bartlett's
letter and glanced over it to put herself in the mood for answering it.
She laughed sardonically as she read. Mrs. Bartlett, confident that
Migwan was going to use the reward money to go to college, discussed the
merits of different courses, and advised Migwan, above all things, with
her talent for writing, to put the emphasis on literature and history.
Migwan took a certain grim delight in telling Mrs. Bartlett what had
happened to her ambition to go to college. She had a Homeric sense of
humor that could see the point when the gods were playing pranks on
helpless mortals. She told the story simply and frankly, without any
"literary style," such as was usually present in her letters to a high
degree; neither did she bewail her lot and seek sympathy, for Migwan was
no craven.
Then, having told Mrs. Bartlett that she had made up her mind to give up
thoughts of college for several years at least, as her duty to her
mother came before her ambition, and had sealed and sent away the
letter, it suddenly came over her that the writing she had done all
winter and which she now considered a waste of time, had done something
for her after all; it had taught her the use of the typewriter, a
knowledge which she could turn to account during the summertime, and by
working in an office somewhere, she could possibly earn enough money to
enter college in the fall after all. And up went Migwan's spirits again,
like a jack-in-the-box, and went soaring among the clouds like the
swallows.