March 25, 19--.
Dearest Katherine:
Listen, my beloved, while I sing you a song of Migwan. She has awakened
at last to find herself famous, and the rest of us, by reason of
reflected glory, found ourselves looked upon as different from all other
animals, and wonderfully popular and run after by five o'clock in the
afternoon, like Old Man Kangaroo. And, all precepts upon precepts to the
contrary, it wasn't conscientiously applying herself to her task that
turned the trick, but deliberate shirking. After all, though, it was
mostly a matter of chance, because if it hadn't rained so that night last
October, Migwan would have gone to the library as she should have, and
the world would have lost a priceless contribution to Indian lore.
It happened thusly. One of Migwan's cronies in the sophomore class has a
weak throat and a condition in Indian History. On the night I have
mentioned she trickled tearfully into Migwan's room and confided that she
simply had to have an Indian legend to read in class the following day or
be marked zero. She had had all the week in which to look one up in the
library, but, according to immemorial custom, she had left it for the
last night. Now it was raining pitchforks and she didn't dare go out,
because she got a terrible attack of quinsy every time there was an east
wind. Migwan, like the angel she is, promptly offered to go over and hunt
one up for her.
"What kind of an Indian legend?" she inquired.
"Oh, any kind," replied Harriet carelessly, "so long as it's _Indian_.
We're studying the Soul of the Savage as revealed by legend, or something
like that. Slip it under my door when you come back with it. I'm going to
bed and coddle my throat. Be sure you don't get one that's too long," she
called back over her shoulder, "remember there are twenty in the class to
help reveal the Savage Soul."
Harriet ambled placidly back to her room and Migwan began hunting through
her closet for her raincoat and rubbers. She didn't find them, because
she had lent them to somebody the week before and couldn't remember whom
she lent them to. She looked out of the window at the torrents coming
down and decided that her little rocking chair by the lamp held out more
attraction than a trip to the library. But she didn't have the heart to
disappoint Harriet by not getting her an Indian legend to read in class
the next day, so she sat down and manufactured one, which is as easy as
rolling off a log for Migwan. Harriet would never know the difference,
and neither would the teacher, off hand, and a made-up legend would save
the day for Harriet as well as a genuine one. The chances were she
wouldn't be called upon to read it anyway. You never are, you know, when
you've broken your neck to be ready. Migwan slipped it under Harriet's
door and then forgot all about it.
Several weeks later, when the _Monthly Morterboard_ came out, there was
Migwan's Indian legend, big as life. It had obviously been used to fill
up space and was not credited to the literary talent of the college; but
to Joseph Latoka, or "Standing Pine," the Penobscot Indian who had
collected the legends of his tribe into a book, which was in the college
library and which was our authority on things Indian. Migwan laughed to
herself over it, but never gave away the fact that she had written it.
She discovered in a roundabout way that the Literary Editor of the
_Morterboard_ had been in despair over lack of material when the October
number was due, and told her tale of woe to Miss Percival, one of the
teachers, and asked her if she had any essays fit to print. Miss Percival
replied that she hadn't had a decent essay this semester, but a girl in
one of her classes had brought in a rather remarkable Indian legend
several days before, which might serve to cast into the breach. The
_Morterboard_ editor promptly hunted up Harriet and demanded the legend.
Harriet still had it among her goods and chattels, and gave it to her
readily, saying that it was one of Joseph Latoka's _Legends of the
Penobscot Indians_, which she honestly believed to be the fact. The
_Morterboard_ editor took her word for it and used the legend to fill up
the chinks in the October issue.
* * * * * *
It was not long after this that Very Seldom paid his annual visit to
Brownell. His name really wasn't Very Seldom; it was Jeremiah Selden, but
everybody referred to him as Jerry, and it wasn't long before "Jerry
Selden" became "Very Seldom." He used to be Professor of Sociology at
Brownell, but he had to give up lecturing because he lost his voice. He
was a sad little man with a plaintive droop to his white mustache and
only a whisper of a voice. He had lost his whole family in some kind of a
railroad accident and always went around with such a homeless air that
everybody felt sorry for him. His hobby was Indian History, Indian
Legends and Indian Relics. After he gave up teaching sociology he took to
writing books, dry old essays and that sort of thing. Nobody ever read
them, and he didn't make much out of them, but he kept plodding along,
always hoping that he would make a hit the next time.
Once every year he came back to Brownell to spend Sunday, to keep alive
the memories of his former life, he used to explain sentimentally. Miss
Allison, his successor as professor of sociology, and who has him beat
forty miles for teaching, always entertained him at tea on the occasion
of his visit, and used to ask him stacks of questions, jollying him along
and making him believe she was in doubt about a lot of things she knew
better than he did. Having his opinion consulted that way made him feel
quite cheerful and important, and his visit to Brownell always put new
life into him.
It happened that one Sunday afternoon Migwan went to Miss Allison's room
to ask her about something and ran into Very Seldom paying his annual
visit. Miss Allison herself wasn't there. She had been called out of town
the night before and had turned over the job of entertaining Very Seldom
to her room-mate, Miss Lee. Miss Lee taught mathematics and didn't care a
rap about sociology, and still less about Indians. Miss Lee is very fond
of Migwan, and invited her to stay to tea. Migwan is forever getting
asked to tea by the faculty; it's because she always gets her hair parted
so straight in the middle, and never upsets her teacup.
Migwan had heard about Very Seldom, and was just as anxious to help cheer
him up as anybody, but this time he didn't need any cheering. He was
positively radiant. He was talking about his latest book and was nearly
bursting with enthusiasm.
It seems that all his life he had been having an argument with another
Indian History shark as to whether, before the coming of the white man to
this continent, the eastern Indians had ever lived on, or visited the
western plains. He maintained that they had, while his friend insisted
that they hadn't. Just recently he had read, in a magazine published by
the Indian Society of North America, a hitherto unpublished legend of
Joseph Latoka's, a curious legend of the White Buffalo. To his mind this
proved beyond a doubt that the Penobscot Indians had, at some time or
other, lived on or visited the Great Plains, and had seen the Buffalo. It
was the only Penobscot legend that mentioned the buffalo as an object of
worship. He had immediately written a monograph on the subject which was
even then in the hands of the publisher. It was a great point to have
discovered. Fame would come to him at last. Very Seldom's air of
desolation had vanished; his hour of triumph had come.
It was at this point that Migwan, the expert tea drinker, suddenly upset
her cup all over Miss Allison's cherished Mexican drawnwork lunchcloth.
That foolish legend that she had manufactured to save herself a trip to
the library in the rain had been taken as authentic and had been copied
from the _Morterboard_ into other magazines! At the time she wrote it she
was in too much of a hurry to pay attention to any such trifles as the
difference between Eastern and Plains Indians. Anyway, she hadn't _said_
anywhere that they were Penobscot Indians, it was Harriet who had said so
to the _Morterboard_ editor.
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. Nobody 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
Dyke-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 shine out
of all his previous ones. His speech entitled, "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 classes, 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!