CHAPTER XIII.
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 intopoetry as she learned them. Regular lessons were gotten out of the wayas quickly as possible these days to give more time to the study ofhistory. And to Migwan studying history meant not merely the memorizingof a number of facts attached to dates which might or might not stay inher mind at the crucial time; it was the bringing to life of bygoneraces and people, and putting herself in their places, and living alongwith them the events described on the pages. Taking it in this way,Migwan had a very clear and vivid picture of the things she waslearning, and her answers to questions showed such a thorough knowledgeof her subject that she was regarded as a "grind" at history, while thetruth was that she did less "grinding" than the rest of the class, whomerely memorized figures and facts without calling in the aid of theimagination. So Migwan learned her new history and reviewed her old, andwas as happy as the day was long.
As the time approached for the examination she felt more sure of herselfevery day. The long hours of patient study were about to be rewarded,and she would bring honor to the Winnebagos by winning the Parsonsprize. That little point about bringing honor to the Winnebagos waskeenly felt by Migwan. Ever since Sahwah had covered herself withundying glory in the game with the Carnegie Mechanics, Migwan felt alonging to distinguish herself in some way also. Sahwah's fame waswidespread, and when any of the Winnebagos happened to mention that theybelonged to that particular group, some one was sure to say, "TheWinnebago Camp Fire? Oh, yes, it was one of your number who won thebasketball championship for the school by making a record jump for theball, wasn't it?" The whole group lived in the reflected glory of Sahwahthe Sunfish. Now, thought Migwan resolutely, they would have somethingelse 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 inhistory!"
Migwan thrilled with the joy of it, and plunged more deeply into thepages 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 ofpen and typewriter. Now she was always happy and sparkling, andperformed her household tasks with such a will that her languid mother,lying and watching her, was likewise filled with an ambition to be upand doing. She was never cross with Betty these days, no matter how manyfits of temper that young lady indulged in. Professor Green oftenstopped her in the hall to ask her how she was getting along in herpreparation, and offered to lend her reference books which would helpher in her study. Everybody seemed to be anxious for her to win theprize, and willing to give her all the help possible.
Migwan did not make the mistake of studying until late the night beforethe examination. She went to bed at nine o'clock, so as to be in fitcondition. When she closed her books after the final study she knew allthat was to be learned from them. The examination was held in the seniorsession room after the close of school. Five pupils participated. Onewas Abraham Goldstein, another was George Curtis, who liked Migwan verywell and hated Abraham cordially; the other two were girls. They all satin one row of seats; Migwan first, then George, then Abraham, and behindhim the two girls. The lists of questions were given out. "I hardly needto say," said the teacher in attendance, "that the honor system will bein force during this examination."
Migwan made an effort to still the wild beating of her heart and readthe questions through. They all appeared easy to her, as she had hadsuch a thorough preparation. George Curtis groaned to himself as helooked them over, for there were two which he saw at a glance he wouldbe unable to answer. Abraham read his and looked thoughtful. Migwanwrote rapidly with a sure and inspired pen until she came to the lastquestion. There she halted in dismay. The question was in the AncientHistory group and read, in part, "Who was the invader of Israel beforeSennacherib?" For the life of her she could not think of the name of theAssyrian invader. Last night the whole thing had been as clear ascrystal in her mind. She thought until the perspiration stood out on herforehead; she tried every method of suggestion that she knew, but all invain; the name still eluded her. While she was trying so desperately torecall the name, George Curtis in the seat behind was watching her. Bychance he had caught a glimpse of her paper, and saw the figure 10followed by an empty space, so he knew that it was the tenth questionshe was having trouble with. This happened to be one he knew and he hadjust written it out in a bold, black hand. He was out of the race forthe prize, for there were two whole questions left out on his sheet. Bycertain signs of distress from the two girls behind him he knew thatthey, too, were out, and it now lay between Migwan and Abraham. Abrahamwas 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 hiswinning that prize.
He watched his chance. It came at last. The teacher dropped her pencilbehind her desk, and in the instant when she was picking it up hereached out and pulled Migwan's hair sharply. When she turned around insurprise he framed with his lips the name "Sargon." She understood itperfectly. Then came a mental struggle which matched Sahwah's terrificphysical one that day in camp. On one side college stood with its doorswide open to welcome her; she heard the plaudits of her friends whoexpected and wanted her to win the prize; she saw the joy in hermother's face when she heard the news; she heard the heartfeltcongratulations of Nyoda and the Winnebagos who would share in herglory. On the other hand she heard just five ugly words echoing in herears. "_You didn't win it honestly!"_ She tried to stifle the voice ofscience. "I knew it perfectly all the time," she said to herself, "andit only slipped my mind for an instant." "But you forgot," said thevoice, "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 theprize Abraham would, and he could well afford to go to college withoutthe money. "He'd cheat if he had the chance," she told herself. "Thatdoesn't help you any," pricked the accuser. "You talk about the honor ofthe Winnebagos. If you use that information you would be dishonoring theWinnebagos! You're a cheat, you're a cheat," it said tauntingly, and alittle sparrow on the window sill outside took up the mocking refrain,"Cheat! Cheat!" Stung as though some one had pointed an accusing fingerat her, Migwan flung down her pen in despair and resolutely blotted herpaper. She handed in her examination with the last half of the lastquestion unanswered, and fled from the room with unseeing eyes. And inthe instant when George was trying to tell Migwan the answer, Abraham,who had also forgotten the name of Sargon, glanced over toward George'spaper and saw it written out in his easily readable hand. Without aqualm he wrote it down on his own paper with a triumphant flourish.
There was great surprise throughout the school a few days later when thegrades of the examination were made public: Elsie Gardiner, 95; AbrahamGoldstein, 98, winner of the Parsons cash prize of $100.
Migwan felt like a wanderer on the face of the earth after losing thathistory prize. She shrank from meeting the friends who had soconfidently expected her to win it, and her own thoughts were toopainful to be left alone with. If Hinpoha had been wandering in theDesert of Waiting for the past few months, Migwan was sunk deep in theSlough of Despond. She was at the age when death seemed preferable todefeat, and she wished miserably that she would fall ill of some mortaldisease, and never have to face the world again with failure written onher forehead. "Oh, why," she wailed in anguish of spirit, as has many anolder and wiser person when confronted with this same unanswerablequestion, "why was I given this glimpse of Paradise only to have thegate slammed in my face?" That spectre of the winter before, the beliefthat 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 beenwithin
her reach, and twice it had been swept away in a single day. Butwhile Migwan was thus learning by hard experience that there is many aslip twixt the cup and the lip, she was also to learn from that sameschoolmistress the truth of the old saying, "Three times and out." Inthe meantime, however, the skies were as gray as the wings of theThunderbird, and life was like a jangling discord struck on a piano longout 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 regardlessof the state of our emotional barometers, and Migwan discovered with astart one day that there were at least a dozen letters in her top bureaudrawer waiting to be answered. "It's a shame," she said to herself, asshe looked them over. "I haven't written to the Bartletts since lastNovember." The Bartletts were the parents of the little boy who wastraced by the aid of her timely snapshot. She opened Mrs. Bartlett'sletter and glanced over it to put herself in the mood for answering it.She laughed sardonically as she read. Mrs. Bartlett, confident thatMigwan was going to use the reward money to go to college, discussed themerits of different courses, and advised Migwan, above all things, withher talent for writing, to put the emphasis on literature and history.Migwan took a certain grim delight in telling Mrs. Bartlett what hadhappened to her ambition to go to college. She had a Homeric sense ofhumor that could see the point when the gods were playing pranks onhelpless mortals. She told the story simply and frankly, without any"literary style," such as was usually present in her letters to a highdegree; neither did she bewail her lot and seek sympathy, for Migwan wasno craven.
Then, having told Mrs. Bartlett that she had made up her mind to give upthoughts of college for several years at least, as her duty to hermother came before her ambition, and had sealed and sent away theletter, it suddenly came over her that the writing she had done allwinter and which she now considered a waste of time, had done somethingfor her after all; it had taught her the use of the typewriter, aknowledge which she could turn to account during the summertime, and byworking in an office somewhere, she could possibly earn enough money toenter 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 theswallows.
The Camp Fire Girls at School; Or, The Wohelo Weavers Page 13
