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!
SAHWAH TO KATHERINE
April 4, 19—.
Dearest K:
You don’t need to think you’re the only one having adventures with your work. Your little old Sahwah is a sure enough grown up young lady now, a real wage-earner, making her little track along the Open Road, and frequently stepping into mud holes and falling flat on her face. I’m “Miss Brewster” now, in a tailored suit and plain shirtwaist, ready to conquer the world with a notebook and typewriter. I finished my course at the business college early in February, and one day while I was in the last stages of completion as a stenographer and nearly ready to have a shipping tag pasted on me in the shape of a graduation certificate, I was summoned into the private office of Mr. Barrett, the head of the school.
I had a chill when the office girl brought me the message. There were only two or three things you were ever sent to Mr. Barrett for. One was failure to pay your tuition; another was doing so poorly in your work that you were a disgrace instead of a credit to the school; another was for “skipping school.” A number of the girls were in the habit of cutting classes after lunch several days in the week and either going to the matinee or running around town with boys from the school. Many complaints about this had come to Mr. Barrett from the teachers, until he got so that he sent for everyone who skipped and read them a stiff lecture. He is a very stern, austere man, and the whole school stands in dread of him.
I went over my list of sins when I was summoned to the office. My tuition was paid up until the end; there was no trouble there. It wouldn’t be my lessons either; for, while I was far from being the eighth wonder of the world on the typewriter, I still had managed to stay in the “A” division since the first. But—here my hair began to stand on end—I had “skipped school” the afternoon before. Slim had come home from college to attend the funeral of his grandfather, and had called me up and invited me to go automobiling with him while he was waiting for his train to go back, and you can guess what happened to Duty. I just naturally skipped school and went with him. It was the first and only time I had skipped in my whole career, but I was evidently going to get my trimmings for it. I went into the office with a sinking heart, for up until this time I had managed to keep in Mr. Barrett’s good graces, and I did pride myself quite a bit on my unreproved state. But I made up my mind to take it like a good sport—I had danced and now I would pay the piper.