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.