CHAPTER VII.
HARD TIMES FOR POETS.
True to her word, Nyoda brought it about that Migwan might use thetypewriter which belonged to her landlady, and every evening after herlessons were learned she worked diligently to master the keys. In a weekor so she managed to copy her story and sent it out again. It came backas promptly as before, with the same kind of rejection slip. She sent itto another magazine and began writing a new one. She worked feverishly,and far beyond her strength. The room where the typewriter was wasdirectly below Nyoda's sitting room, and hearing the machine stillrattling after ten o'clock one night she calmly walked in and pulledMigwan away from the keys. Migwan protested. "It's past closing time,"said Nyoda firmly.
"But I must finish this page," said Migwan.
"You must nothing of the kind," said Nyoda, forcing Migwan into hercoat. "'Hold on to Health' does not mean work yourself to death.Hereafter you stop writing at nine o'clock or I will take the typewriteraway from you."
"Oh, mayn't I stay until half past nine?" asked Migwan coaxingly.
"No, ma'm," said Nyoda emphatically. "Nine o'clock is the time. That's abargain. As long as you keep your part of it you may use the typewriter,but as soon as you step over the line I go back on my part. Nowremember, 'No checkee, no shirtee.'" And Migwan perforce had to submit.
The stories came back as fast as they were sent out, and Migwan began tohave new sidelights on the charmed life supposedly led by authors andauthoresses. The struggle to get along without getting into debt wasbecoming an acute one with the Gardiner family. Tom delivered papersduring the week and helped out in a grocery store on Saturday, and hisearnings helped slightly, but not much. Midwinter taxes on two housesate up more than two weeks' income. With almost superhuman ingenuityMigwan apportioned their expenses so the money covered them. This shehad to do practically alone, for her mother was as helpless before acolumn of figures as she would have been in a flood. Meat practicallydisappeared from the table. The big bag of nuts which Tom had gatheredin the fall and which they had thought of only as a treat to pass aroundin the evening now became a prominent part of the menu. Dried peas andbeans, boiled and made into soup, made their appearance on the tableseveral times a week. Cornbread was another standby. Long yearsafterward Migwan would shudder at the sight of either bean soup orcornbread. She nearly wore out the cook book looking for new ways inwhich to serve potatoes, squash, turnips, onions and parsnips.
She soon discovered that most provisions could be bought a few centscheaper in the market than in the stores, so every Saturday afternoonshe made a trip downtown with a big market basket and bought the week'ssupply of butter, eggs and vegetables. At first the necessity forspending carfare cut into her profits, but she got around this in anadroit way that promised well for her future ability to handle heraffairs to the best advantage. She tried a little publicity work toswing things around to suit her purpose. She simply exalted the joys ofmarketing until the other Winnebagos were crazy to do the familymarketing, too. As soon as Gladys caught the fever her object wasaccomplished, for Gladys took all the girls to market in her father'sbig car and brought all their purchases home. So Migwan accomplished herown ends and gave the Winnebagos a new opportunity to pursue knowledgeat the same time.
At Christmas time she had also fallen back on her ingenuity to producethe gifts she wished to give. There was no money at all to be spent forthis purpose. Migwan took a careful stock of the resources of the house.The only promising thing she found was a leather skin which Hinpoha hadgiven her the summer before for helping her write up the weekly Count inHiawatha meter, which was outside of Hinpoha's range of talents. Sheconsidered the possibilities of that skin carefully. It must yield sevenarticles--a present for each of the Winnebagos. She decided on bookcovers. She wrote up seven different incidents of the summer campingtrip in verse and copied them with the typewriter on rough yellowdrawing paper, thinking to decorate each sheet. But Migwan had littleartistic ability and soon saw that her decorations were not beautifulenough to adorn Christmas gifts. After spoiling several pages she gaveup in disgust and threw the spoiled pages into the grate. The nextmorning she was cleaning out the grate and found the pieces of paper,only partially burned around the edges. She suddenly had an idea. Thefire had burned a neat and artistic brown border around the writing. Whynot burn all her sheets around the edges? Accordingly she set to workwith a candle, and in a short time had her pages decorated in an odd andoriginal way which could not fail to appeal to a Camp Fire Girl. Thenshe pasted the irregular pieces of yellow paper on straight pages ofheavy brown paper, which brought out the burned edges beautifully. Onthe cover of each book she painted the symbol of the girl for whom itwas intended, and on the inside of the back cover she painted her own.The Winnebagos were delighted with the books and took greater pride inshowing them to their friends than they did their more expensivepresents.
That piece of ingenuity was bread cast on the water for Migwan. Nyodacame to her one day while she was working her head off on thetypewriter. "Could the authoress be persuaded to desist from her laborsfor a while?" she asked, tiptoeing around the room in a ridiculouseffort to be quiet, which convulsed Migwan.
"Speak," said Migwan. "Your wish is already granted."
Nyoda sat down. "You remember that cunning little book you made me forChristmas?" she asked. Migwan nodded. "Well," continued Nyoda, "I wasshowing it to Professor Green the other night and he was quite carriedaway with it. He has a quantity of notes he took on a hunting trip lastfall and wants to know if you will make them into a book like that forhim. There will be quite a bit of work connected with it, as all thematerial will have to be copied on the typewriter and arranged in goodorder, and he is willing to pay two and a half dollars for yourservices. Would you be willing to do it?"
Would she be willing to do it? Would she see two and a half dollarslying in the street and not pick it up? The professor's notes werespeedily secured and she set to work happily to transform them into anartistic record book. Her sister Betty grumbled a good deal these daysbecause she was asked to do so much of the housework. Before Migwan tookto typewriting at night Betty had been in the habit of staying out ofthe house until supper was ready, and then getting up from the table andgoing out again immediately, leaving Migwan to get supper and wash thedishes. It was easier to do the work herself than to argue with Bettyabout it, and if she appealed to her mother Mrs. Gardiner always said,"Just leave the dishes and I'll do them alone," so rather than have hermother do them Migwan generally washed and wiped them alone. But nowthat she was working so hard she needed the whole afternoon to get herlessons in, and insisted that Betty should help get supper and wipedishes afterwards. For once Mrs. Gardiner took sides with Migwan andcommanded Betty to do her share of the work. In consequence Bettydeveloped a fierce resentment against Migwan's literary efforts, andtaunted her continually with her failure to make anything of it. Sinceshe had been working on Professor Green's book Migwan had done nothingat all in the house, and her usual Saturday work fell to Betty.
Mrs. Gardiner was not feeling well of late, and could do no sweeping, soBetty found herself with a good day's work ahead of her one Saturdaymorning. Instead of playing that the dirt was a host of evil sprits, asMigwan did, which she could vanquish with the aid of her magic broom,Betty went at it sullenly and with a firm determination to do as littleas possible and get through just as quickly as she could. She made upher mind that when Migwan went to market in the afternoon she would goalong with her in the automobile. So by going hastily over the surfaceof things she got through by three o'clock, and when Gladys called forMigwan, Betty came running out too, with her coat and hat on, dressed inher best dress.
"Where are you going?" asked Migwan.
"Along with you," answered Betty.
"I'm afraid we can't take you," said Migwan; "there isn't enough room."
"Oh, I'll squeeze in," said Betty lightly. Now seven girls with marketbaskets in addition to the driver are somewhat of a crowd, and therereally w
as no room for Betty in the machine. Besides, Betty was a greattease and the girls dreaded to have her with them, so no one said a wordof encouragement.
"You can't come, and that is all there is to it," said Migwan rathercrossly. She was in a hurry to be off and get the marketing done. Bettystamped her foot, and snatching Migwan's market basket, she ran aroundthe corner of the house with it. Migwan ran after her, and forciblyrecovering the basket, hit Betty over the head with it several times.Then she jumped into the automobile and the driver started off, leavingBetty standing looking after the rapidly disappearing car and workingherself into a terrible temper. She ran into the house and slammed thedoor with such a jar that the vases on the mantel rattled and threatenedto fall down. She threw her hat and coat on the floor and stamped onthem in a perfect fury. On the sitting room table lay the pages of thebook which Migwan was making for Professor Green. The edges were alreadyburned and they were ready to be pasted on the brown mat. Betty's eyessuddenly snapped when she saw them. Here was a fine chance to berevenged on Migwan. With an exclamation of triumph she seized theleaves, tore them in half and threw them into the grate, standing byuntil they were consumed to ashes, and laughing spitefully the while.
Migwan came in briskly with her basket of provisions. Betty looked upslyly from the book she was reading, but said not a word. Migwan wentinto the sitting room and Betty heard her moving around. "Mother,"called Migwan up the stairway, "where did you put the pages of my book?I left them on the sitting room table."
"I didn't touch them," replied her mother; "I haven't been downstairssince you went out."
"Betty," said Migwan sternly, "did you hide my work?" Betty laughedmockingly, but made no reply. "Make haste and give them back," commandedMigwan. "I have no time to waste."
Betty still maintained a provoking silence and Migwan began lookingthrough the table drawers for the missing leaves. Betty watched her withmalicious glee. "You may look a while before you find them," she saidmeaningly; "they're hidden in a nice, safe place."
Migwan stood and faced her, exasperated beyond endurance. "BettyGardiner," she said angrily, "stop this nonsense at once and tell mewhere those pages are!"
"Well, if you're really curious to know," answered Betty, smilingwickedly, "I'll tell you. They're _there_" and she pointed to the grate.
"Betty," gasped Migwan, turning white, "you don't mean that you'veburned them?"
"That's what I do mean," said Betty coolly. "I'll show you if you cantreat me like a baby."
Migwan stood as if turned to stone. She could hardly believe that thosefair pages, which represented so many hours of patient work, had beenswept away in one moment of passion. Blindly she turned, and putting onher wraps, walked from the house without a word. It seemed to her thatFate had decreed that nothing which she undertook should succeed.Discouragement settled down on her like a black pall. With the abilityto do things which should set her above her fellows, she was beingrelentlessly pursued by some strange fatality which marked every effortof hers a failure. She walked aimlessly up street after street withoutany idea where she was going, entirely oblivious to her surroundings.Wandering thus, she discovered that she was in the park, and had comeout on the high bluff of the lake. She stood moodily looking down at thevast field of ice that such a short time before had been tossing waves.The lake, to all appearances, was frozen solid out as far as theone-mile crib. There was a curious stillness in the air, as when theclock had stopped, due to the absence of the noise made by the wavesdashing on the rocks. Nothing had ever appealed so to Migwan as did theabsolute silence and solitude of that frozen lake. Her bruised youngspirit was weary of contact with people, and found balm in this icydesert where there was so sound of a human voice. As far as the eyecould see there was not a living being in sight. A skating carnival inthe other end of the park drew the attention of all who were abroad onthis Saturday afternoon, and kept them away from the lake front.
A desire to be enveloped in this solitude came over Migwan; to get herfeet off the earth altogether. She half slid and half climbed down thecliff and walked out on the ice. Before her the grey horizon linestretched vast and unbroken, and she walked out toward it, lost indreaming. Sometimes the floor under her feet was smooth and polished asa pane of glass, and sometimes it was rough and covered with hummockswhere the water had frozen in the wind. In Migwan's fancy this was notthe lake she was walking on; it was one of the great Swiss glaciers.Those grey clouds there, standing out against the black ones, they werethe mountains, and she was taking her perilous journey through themountain pass. The ice cracked slightly under her feet, but she did notnotice. She was a Swiss guide, taking a party of tourists across theglacier. Underneath this floor of ice were the bodies of those travelerswho had fallen into the crevices. She was telling the tourists thestories of the famous disasters and they were shuddering at her tale.The ice cracked again under her feet, but her mind, soaring in flightsof fancy, took no heed.
Her imagination took another turn. Now she was Mrs. Knollys, in thefamous story, waiting for the body of her husband to be given up by theglacier. The long years of waiting passed and she stood at the foot ofthe glacier watching the miracle unfold before her eyes. The glacier wasmaking queer cracking noises as it descended, and it sounded as thoughthere was water underneath it. She could hear it lapping.
C-R-A-C-K! A sound rang out on the still air that startled Migwan likethe report of a pistol, followed immediately by another. She came to hersenses with a rush. With hardly a moment's warning the ice on which shewas standing broke away from the main mass and began to move. Struckmotionless by fright, she had not the presence of mind to jump back tothe larger field. A wave washed in between, separating her by severalfeet from the solid ice. The cake she was on began to heave and fallsickeningly. There was another cracking sound and the edge of the solidbody of ice broke up into dozens of floating cakes, that ground andpounded each other as the waves set them in motion. Every drop of bloodreceded from Migwan's heart as she realized what had happened. Shescreamed aloud, once, and then knew the futility of it. Her voice couldnot reach to the shore. Lake and sky and horizon line now mocked herwith their silence. The cake of ice, lurching and tipping, beganfloating out to sea.
On this wintry afternoon Sahwah left the house in a far different moodfrom that which had carried Migwan blindly over the ground. Her eyeswere sparkling with the joy of life and her cheeks were glowing in thecold. She wore a heavy reefer sweater and a knitted cap. Under her armwas her latest plaything--a pair of skis. By her side walked DickAlbright, one of the boys in her class, whom she considered especiallygood fun. Dick also had a pair of skis. The two of them were bound forthe park to practice "making descents" from the hillsides. Sahwah wasabsolutely happy, and chattered like one of the sparrows that wereflocking on the lawns and streets. Her chief interest in life just nowwas the school basketball team, of which she was a member. Soon, verysoon, would come the big game with the Carnegie Mechanics, which woulddecide the championship of the city. Sahwah was the star forward for theWashington High team, and it was no secret that the winning of that gamedepended upon her to a great extent. Sahwah was the idol of theathletically inclined portion of the school. Dick thought there neverwas such a player--for a girl.
Sahwah was full of basketball talk now, and made shrewd comments on thegood and bad points of both teams, weighing the chances of each withgreat care. "Mechanicals' center is shorter than ours; we have theadvantage there. One of their forwards is good and the other isn't, andone of our guards is weak. On the whole, we're about evenly matched."
"Fine chance Mechanicals'll have with you in the game," said Dick.
"The only thing I'm afraid of," said Sahwah, with a thoughtful pucker,"is Marie Lanning; you know, Joe Lanning's cousin. She's to guard me andshe's a head taller."
"Don't worry, you'll manage all right," said Dick. Sahwah laughed. Itwas pleasant to be looked up to as the hope of the school. "If you onlydon't get sick," said Dick.
"Don't be afraid," answere
d Sahwah. "I won't get sick. But if I don'tget my Physics notebook finished by the First of February I'll not beeligible for the game, and that's no joke. Fizzy said nobody would get apassing grade this month who didn't have that old notebook finished, andyou know what that means."
"There really isn't any danger of your not getting it in, is there?"asked Dick breathlessly.
"Not if I keep at it," answered Sahwah, and Dick breathed easy again. Toallow yourself to be declared ineligible for a game on account ofstudies when the school was depending on you to win that game would havebeen a crime too awful to contemplate.
The snow on the hills in the park had a hard crust, which made it justright for skiing. Sahwah and Dick made one descent after another,sometimes tripping over the point of a ski and landing in a sprawlingheap, but more often sailing down in perfect form with a breathlessrush. "That last leap of yours was a beauty," said Sahwah admiringly.
"I think I'm learning," said Dick modestly.
"I 'stump' you to go down the big hill on the lake front," said Sahwah,her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Dick knew what that particular hill was like, but, boylike, he could notrefuse a dare given by a girl. "Do you want to see me do it?" he saidstoutly. "All right, I will."
"Don't," said Sahwah, frightened at what she had driven him to do;"you'll break your neck. I didn't really mean to dare you to do it." ButDick had made up his mind to go down that cliff hill just to show Sahwahthat he could, and nothing could turn him aside now.
"Come along," he said; "I can make it." And he started off toward thelake front at a brisk pace.
But when he had reached the top of the hill in question he stood stilland stared out over the lake. "Hello," he said in surprise, "there'ssomebody having trouble out there on the ice." Sahwah came and stoodbeside him, shading her eyes with her hand to see what was happening. Atthat distance she did not recognize Migwan. "The ice is breaking!" criedDick, who was far-sighted and saw the girl on the floating ice cake.Like a whirlwind he sped down the hillside, dropped over the edge of thecliff like a plummet and shot nearly a hundred feet out over the glassysurface of the lake. Without pausing an instant Sahwah was after him.She had a dizzy sensation of falling off the earth when she made thejump from the hillside, which was a greater distance than she had everdropped before, but it was over so quickly that she had no time to loseher breath before she was on solid ground again and taking the longslide over the lake. In a short time they reached the edge of the brokenice.
"Migwan!" gasped Sahwah when she saw who the girl on the floating cakewas. They could not get very near her, as the edge of the solid mass wascontinually breaking away, and there was a strip of moving piecesbetween them and her. "Fasten the skis together and make a long pole,"said Sahwah, "and then she can take hold of one end of it and we canpull her toward us," said Sahwah.
"Good idea," said Dick, and proceeded to lash the long strips togetherwith the straps, aided by sundry strings and handkerchiefs.
Then there were several moments of suspense until Migwan came withinreach of the pole. She simply had to wait until she floated near enoughto grasp it, which the perverse ice cake seemed to have no intention ofdoing. The right combination of wind and wave came at last, however, anddrove her in toward the shore. She was still beyond the end of the pole."Jump onto the next cake," called Sahwah. Migwan obeyed in fear andtrembling. It took still another jump before she could reach thelifesaver. She was now separated from the broken mass at the edge of thesolid ice by about six feet. With Migwan clinging fast to the pole Dickbegan to pull in gently, so as not to pull her off the ice, and the cakebegan to move across this open space until it was close beside thenearer mass of broken pieces. Then, supported by the improvised handrail, Migwan leaped from one cake to the next, and so made her way backto the solid part. It was an exciting process, for the pieces tipped andheaved when she stepped on them, and bobbed up and down, and some turnedover just as her feet left them.
"Eliza crossing the ice," said Sahwah, giggling nervously.
Migwan sank down exhausted when she felt the solid mass under her feetand knew that the danger was over. She was chilled through and through,and more than one wave had splashed over the floating ice while she wason it and soaked her shoes and stockings. Sahwah took this in at aglance. "Get up," she said sharply, "and run. Run all the way home ifyou don't want to get pneumonia. It's your only chance." Taking hold ofher hands, Dick and Sahwah ran along beside her, making her keep up thepace when she pleaded fatigue. More dead than alive she reached home,but warm from head to foot. Sahwah rolled her in hot blankets andadministered hot drinks with a practiced hand. Neither Mrs. Gardiner norBetty were at home. Migwan soon dropped off to sleep, and woke feelingentirely well. Thanks to Sahwah's taking her in hand she emerged fromthe experience without even a sign of a cold.
With heroic patience and courage she began again the weary task oftyping and burning all the pages of Professor Green's book and finishedit this time without mishap. The money she received for it all went intothe family purse. Not a cent did she spend on herself.
Not long after this Migwan had a taste of fame. She had a poem printedin the paper! It happened in this way. At the Sunbeam Nursery onemorning Nyoda saw her surrounded by a group of breathlessly listeningchildren and joined the circle to hear the story Migwan was telling. Shehad apparently just finished, and the childish voices were calling outfrom all sides, "Tell it again!" Nyoda listened with interest as Migwan,with a solemn expression and impressive voice, recited the tragic taleof the "Goop Who Wouldn't Wash":
Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn, He was a Goop if there ever was one! Slapped his small sister whene'er he could reach her, Muddied the carpet, made mouths at the preacher, Talked back to his mother whenever she chid, Always did otherwise than he was bid; Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn, Manners he certainly had not a one!
O bad little Goops, wheresoe'er you may be, Take heed what befell young Agricola G! For Gunther Augustus (unlike you, I hope), Had an inborn aversion to water and soap; He fought when they washed him, he squirmed and he twisted, He shrieked, scratched and wriggled until they desisted; He would not be combed--it was no use to try-- O he was a Goop, they could all testify!
So Gunther went dirty--unwashed and uncombed, With hands black as pitch through the garden he roamed; When suddenly a monstrous black shadow fell o'er him, And the Woman Who Scrubs Dirty Goops stood before him!
Her waist was a washcloth, her skirt was a towel, She looked down at him with a horrible scowl; One hand was a brush and the other a comb, Her forehead was soap and her pompadour foam! Her foot was a shoebrush, and on it did grow A shiny steel nail file in place of a toe! Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn, He had a fright if he ever had one!
In a twinkling she seized him--Oh, how he did shriek! And threw him headforemost right into the creek! Rubbed soap in his eyes (Dirty Goops, O beware!), And in combing the snarls pulled out handfuls of hair! Scrubbed the skin off his nose, brushed his teeth till they bled, Tweaked his ears, rapped his knuckles, and gleefully said, "Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn, There'll be a difference when I get done!"
After that young Agricola strove hard to see How very, how heavenly good he could be! Wiped his feet at the door, tipped his hat to the preacher, Caressed his small sister whene'er he could reach her! Stood still while they washed him and combed out his hair, His garments he folded and laid on a chair! Gunter Augustus Agricola Gunn, He was a saint if there ever was one!
"Where did you get that poem?" asked Nyoda.
"I wrote it myself," answered Migwan.
"Good work!" said Nyoda; "will you give me a copy?"
Nyoda showed the poem to Professor Green and Professor Green showed itto a friend who was column editor of one of the big dailies, and onefine morning the poem appeared in the paper, with Migwan's full name andaddress at the bottom, "Elsie Gardiner, Adams Ave." The Gardiners didnot happen to take that particular paper and Migwan knew nothing of i
tuntil she reached school and was congratulated on all sides. ProfessorGreen, who had taken a great interest in Migwan since she had worked uphis hunting notes in such a striking style, and regarded her as hisspecial protege, was anxious to have the whole school know what a giftedgirl she was. He had a conference with the principal, and as a resultMigwan was asked to read her poem at the rhetorical exercises in theauditorium that day. When she finished the applause was deafening, andwith blushing cheeks and downcast eyes she ran from the stage. Therewere distinguished visitors at school that day, representatives of anational organization who had come to address the scholars, and theycame up to Migwan after she had read her poem to be introduced and offercongratulations. Teachers stopped her in the hall to tell her how brightshe was, and the other pupils regarded her with great respect. Migwanwas the lion of the hour.
She hurried home on flying feet and danced into the house waving thepaper. "Oh, mother," she called, as soon as she was inside the door,"guess what I've got to show you!" Her mother was not in the kitchen andshe ran through the house looking for her. "Oh, mother," she called,"oh, moth--why, what's the matter?" she asked, stopping in surprise inthe sitting room door. Mrs. Gardiner lay on the couch, and beside hersat the family doctor. Betty stood by looking very much frightened. Mrs.Gardiner looked up as Migwan came in. "It's nothing," she said, tryingto speak lightly; "just a little spell."
"Mother has to go to the hospital," said Betty in a scared voice.
"Just a little operation," said Mrs. Gardiner hastily, as Migwan lookedready to drop. "Nothing serious--very."
Migwan's hour of triumph was completely forgotten in the anxiety of thenext few days. Her mother rallied slowly from the operation, and itlooked as though she would have to remain in the hospital a long time.It was impossible to meet this added expense from their little income,and Migwan, setting her teeth bravely, drew the remainder of her collegemoney from the bank to pay the hospital and surgeon's bills. Then sheset to work with redoubled zeal to write something which would sell. Sofar everything she had sent out had come back promptly. For a long timecertain advertisements in the magazines had been holding her attention.They read something like this: "Write Moving Picture Plays. Bring $50 to$100 each. We teach you how by an infallible method. Anybody can do it.Full particulars sent for a postage stamp." Migwan had seen quite a fewpicture plays, many of them miserably poor, and felt that she couldwrite better ones than some, or at least just as good. She wrote to theaddress given in one of the advertisements, asking for "fullparticulars." Back came a letter couched in the most glowing terms,which Migwan was not experienced enough to recognize as a multigraphedcopy, which stated that the writer had noticed in her letter of inquirya literary ability well worth cultivating, and he would feel himselfhighly honored to be allowed to teach her to write moving picture plays,a field in which she would speedily gain fame and fortune. He wouldthrow open the gates of success for her for the nominal fee of thirtydollars, with five dollars extra for "stationery, etc." His regular feewas thirty-five dollars, but it was not often that he came across somuch ability as she had, and he considered the pleasure he would derivefrom the correspondence course worth five dollars to him. Would she notsend the first payment of five dollars by return mail so that hisenjoyment might begin as soon as possible?
Migwan read the letter through with a beating heart until she came tothe price, when her heart sank into her shoes. To pay thirty dollars wasentirely out of the question. She wrote to several more advertisementsand received much the same answer from all of them. There was only onewhich she could consider at all. This one offered no correspondencecourse, but advertised a book giving all the details of scenariowriting, "history of the picture play, form, where to sell your plays,etc., all in one comprehensive volume." The price of the book was threedollars. Migwan hesitated a long time over this last one, but the subtlelanguage of the advertisement drew her back again and again like amagnet, and finally overcame her doubts. "It will pay for itself manytimes when I have learned to write plays," she reflected. So she tookthree precious dollars from the housekeeping money and sent for thebook. She did not ask Nyoda's advice this time; somehow she shrank fromtelling her about it.
In three days the book arrived. The "comprehensive volume" was apaper-covered pamphlet containing exactly twenty-nine pages. It couldnot have sold for more than ten or fifteen cents in a book store. Thefirst five pages were devoted to a description of the phenomenal sale ofthe first edition of the book, two more enlarged upon the "unfillabledemand" of the motion picture companies for scenarios, while theremainder of the book was given over to the "technique" of scenariowriting. Migwan read it through eagerly, and did gain an idea of theform in which a play should be cast, although the information was meagreenough. Three dollars was an outrageous price to pay for the book,thought Migwan, but she comforted herself with the thought that by meansof it she would soon lift the family out of their difficulties. She setto work with a cheery heart. Writing picture plays was easier thanwriting stories on account of the skeleton form in which they were cast,which made it unnecessary to strive for excellence of literary style.She finished the first one in two nights and sent it off with highhopes. The company she sent it to was listed in the book as "greatly inneed of one-reel scenarios, and taking about everything sent to them."She was filled with a secret elation and went about the house singinglike a lark, until Betty, who had been moping like an owl since hermother went to the hospital, was quite cheered up. "What are you sohappy about?" she asked curiously. "You act as if somebody had left youa fortune."
"Maybe they have," replied Migwan mysteriously; "wait and see!"
Her joy was short-lived, however, for the play came back even morepromptly than the stories had. Undaunted, she sent it out again andagain. The reasons given for rejection would have been amusing if Migwanhad not felt so disappointed. One said there was insufficient plot; onesaid the plot was too complicated; one said it was too long for aone-reel, and the next said it was too short even for a split-reel. Twoplaces kept the return postage she had enclosed and sent the manuscriptback collect. Scenario writing became a rather expensive amusement,instead of a bringer of fortune. In spite of all this, she kept onwriting scenarios, for the fascination of the game had her in its grip,and she would never be satisfied until she succeeded. Lessons werethrust into the background of her mind by the throng of "scene-plots,""leaders," "bust-scenes," "inserts," "synopses," etc., that flashedthrough her head continually.
To write steadily night after night, after the lessons had been gottenout of the way, was a great tax on her young strength. Nyoda wasinflexible about her stopping typewriting at nine o'clock, but she wenthome and wrote by hand until midnight. Nyoda was over at the house oneafternoon when Migwan was settling down to get her lessons, and saw hertake a dose from a phial.
"What are you taking medicine for?" she asked.
"Oh, this is just something to tone me up," replied Migwan.
"What is it?" insisted Nyoda.
"It's strychnine," said Migwan.
"Strychnine!" said Nyoda in a horrified voice. "Who taught you to takestrychnine as a stimulant?"
"Mabel Collins did," answered Migwan. "She said she always took it whenshe had a dance on for every night in the week and couldn't keep up anyother way, and it made her feel fine." Mabel Collins belonged to whatthe class called the "fast bunch."
"I'll have a talk with Mabel Collins," said Nyoda with a resolute gleamin her eye. "And, remember, no more of this 'tonic' for you. I knewgirls in college who took strychnine to keep themselves going throughexaminations or other occasions of great physical strain, and they havesuffered for it ever since. If you are doing so much that you can't'keep up' any other way than by taking powerful medicines, it is timeyou 'kept down.' Fresh air and regular sleep are all the tonic you need.You stay away from that typewriter for a whole week and go to bed atnine o'clock every night. I'm coming down to tuck you in. Now remember!"And with this solemn warning Nyoda left her.
The Camp Fire Girls at School; Or, The Wohelo Weavers Page 7