Yours Lovingly

I

THE Indian disciplinarian at the Rosehill Government Indian School strolled into the office of the assistant clerk, leaned against a filing cabinet, and took off his hat.

‘ Miss Canby,’ he said, ‘ you ’member that Pokagan boy that come in las’ month? Julius, his name is. Well, he’s got T. B.’

‘Oh, dear!’ Miss Canby murmured.

‘Yeh. Bad, I guess. He’s got them sores. You know — on his neck. He’s got that kind of T. B.’

‘Tchk, tchk, tchk,’ said Miss Canby, commiseratingly, ‘and the medical certificate in his application never so much as mentioned—’ She stopped, aghast. ‘You don’t mean you’ve got him in the boys’ building!'

‘ Yeh,’ said the disciplinarian, ‘that’s where I’ve got him. Right there with one hundred and thirty-eight other boys,. He coughs that bad nobody can sleep.’

‘But — but why did n’t you send him to the hospital?’

‘Aw, the hospital! I sent him there the first thing when he come in an’ I seen them sores, but the doctor says he can’t keep T. B. cases there. So I says, “Well, can you fix it up so he can go to the Indian sanitarium? " An’ he said sending kids to sanitariums was n’t none of his business. He said for me to see the superintendent.’

‘Did you see Mr. Gooby?’

‘Yeh, I saw Mr. Gooby. I saw him four times.’

‘And what did he say?’

The disciplinarian shifted his weight from his left foot to his right, twined the left leg around the right, crossed his arms, and, gently tapping his shoulder with his hat, looked at the ceiling.

‘He said, “Is that so?” I said, “Mr. Gooby, that boy, Julius Pokagan, he’s got T. B. He’s gonna die,” I says, “if we don’t do sumpin.” An’ he says, “Is that so?” Four times I went to him. “Oh, is that so?” he says. Gee, I bet if I was to show him Julius Pokagan he would n’t know if he was a pupil here or the President o’ the Unite’ States. Gee, he sure is dumb, that fella.'

‘He — he’s so busy, Mr. Eagle Man.’

‘Yeh. To-day, f’r instance, he’s makin’ a speech at the Ladies’ Aid or sumpin.’

‘It’s really my job to look after the pupils, you know; their records and — and everything. I’ll see Mr. Gooby as soon as he comes in and I’ll fix everything up for Julius. And — er — in the meantime, Mr. Eagle Man, could you — Well, if you could arrange to keep Julius sort of by himself, don’t you know — ’

‘Keep him by himself! Where? Where’d I keep him? In the root cellar? The way it stands now I ’ve got five boys in rooms that was made for two. Some places I got two boys sleeping in one bed. Yeah! Sure! And a single bed at that.’

‘Well — well, I’ll fix him up, Mr. Eagle Man.’

‘All right. That’s good.’

And Mr. Eagle Man, having unwound his legs, plodded out and back to his building, carrying his hat in his hand and thinking bitter thoughts.

At a quarter after five Mr. Gooby, the superintendent, returned. Miss Canby followed him into his office.

‘Mr. Gooby, you know that Pokagan boy that came in about a month ago? Well, he has tuberculosis. The doctor says he’ll be all right if he can be sent somewhere where he can have the proper treatment. He’s in the boys’ building just now, and, of course, all the other boys are in there with him. . . . Well, anyway, he’s pretty sick.’

‘Is that so?’ said Mr. Gooby.

Miss Canby winced.

‘He should be sent away, don’t you think?’ she suggested gently.

‘Yeh. Sure. Send him to the government sanitarium at Toledo. That’s the place for him. We don’t want no T. B. around here.’

‘They can’t take him at Toledo. They’re full. I wired.’

‘ Is that so ? ’

‘Yes.’

‘Well.’ Mr. Gooby’s blue eyes looked blank.

‘The only thing we can do under the circumstances is to have him — ’

Here the telephone rang. Mr. Gooby picked it up, leaned as far back as his swivel chair would permit without spilling him out entirely, and put the receiver to his ear.

‘Hello! . . . Yeh, this is Mr. Gooby speaking. . . . Huh? Who? . . . Oh! Oh, hello, Van! . . . Yeh? I was out. . . . Well, say, that’s too bad. Yeh. But say. . . . Well, I could n’t help it really. I promised those women at the Child Welfare Club. . . . What’s that? Yeh, I promised ’em. . . . Yeh, I was lecturing before the Child Welfare Club. I do quite a bit of that, you know. I was telling ’em all about health conditions among the Indians. It’s hell, you know, the way T. B. gets ’em. . . . What? What ja say? . . . Well, say, Van, that’s too bad. But listen. . . . Listen, Van. . . . Yeh, listen. I’ll meet you at the corner of Main and Broadway, right there in front of the bank. Say, who else is goin’ to play anyway? . . . What! Those two duds! Huh? Say, listen, when I play golf I play, see? . . . Yeh, but those two fellows . . .’

It went on and on and on, but eventually it was settled that Mr. Gooby would meet Van in front of the bank, pick him up in his car, and from there the two of them would proceed to the reformed log cabin which was known as the country club, where they would be joined by two other sporting gentlemen who, in Mr. Gooby’s opinion and to his chagrin, knew regrettably little about golf, but with whom he would condescend to play as a personal favor to his friend Van.

‘The only thing we can do with Julius Pokagan,’ Miss Canby began, as soon as Mr. Gooby had righted himself and hung up the receiver.

‘Who’s Julius Pokagan?’ Mr. Gooby asked, with a mild baby-blue stare.

‘He’s a boy who came in a month ago,’ Miss Canby recited with admirable self-restraint, ‘and he has tuberculosis and he’s there in the boys’ building with one hundred and thirtyeight other boys.’

‘ What did you say was the matter with him?’

‘He has tuberculosis,’ Miss Canby wanted to shout it, but she did n’t.

‘Is that so?’

Miss Canby took a long breath and swallowed hard.

‘Yes.’

‘Well.’

‘The doctor says he’ll be all right in a short time, though I must say I think he looks pretty bad; but the sanatorium at Toledo is full, and I can’t think of anything except to try and have him committed to the State University Hospital —'

She was interrupted by a groan from Mr. Gooby. ‘Oh, Miss Canby, that’s too much trouble. Too much trouble. Entirely too much trouble. I’ll tell you —’ He rose and picked up his cap. ‘Just send him home. Send him back to his home; he’ll like that better anyway.’

‘But, Mr. Gooby,’ Miss Canby expostulated, following him determinedly to the door, ‘he has n’t any home.’

‘Is that so?’

Miss Canby swallowed again, her eyes a little glassy.

‘I looked up his record and it says his mother is dead and his father is away in the woods somewhere looking for work in the lumber camps. Just now no one seems to know where he is, not even Julius. There is absolutely no one Julius can go home to; I asked him. He’s absolutely alone in the world.’

‘Well, that’s too bad,’ said Mr. Gooby regretfully, opening the door. ‘That’s too bad.’ And seeing the screen door, which everybody but himself knew should have been taken down long ago, and fancying himself on the outside instead of the inside of it, he fanned off a lot of imaginary flies before opening it, and, having passed out, painstakingly closed it behind him. ‘I’m always careful not to let any flies into the office,’ he said, hoping the hint would sink in.

‘But what are we going to do with Julius Pokagan?’ Miss Canby wailed through the screen.

Mr. Gooby obligingly paused where the concrete walk turned toward his house and called back good-naturedly: ‘Say, I’ll tell you. You just send him back to the place he came from. See? To the same railroad station. That’s the best way. Then we won’t have no responsibility.'

Miss Canby stood in the doorway looking at him through the screen until he had disappeared within his own house, then she clicked her teeth hungrily three times, whispered, ‘The poor simp,’ shivered in the chill air, closed the door, and went into the chief clerk’s office.

‘Mr. Rollins,’ she said, arranging a cushion on top of the radiator prior to sitting down on it, ‘would it be any good tackling the county authorities about another charity case for the University Hospital?’

Mr. Rollins sighed. ‘What kind of case is it this time?’

‘Tuberculosis.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ he groaned.

‘He’s a now boy. His mother’s dead and his father’s sort of disappeared or something. Anyway, he’s alone. I never saw anything so much alone. And he’s sixteen and he’s got a shape something like that ruler there on your desk. He sits all day on the edge of a bed and coughs. Anybody’s bed. Unlass, of course, he happens to be in the classroom. Or the dining room. You won’t believe it, but he was detailed to the dairy. But the disciplinarian excused him.’

‘Is that all?’ asked Mr. Rollins.

‘He says he’s homesick.’

Mr. Rollins made an entry in the cashbook, blotted it, then looked out of the window.

‘Why,’ he asked presently, ‘don’t you go way somewhere all by yourself and scream?’

‘Because I’d make too much noise,’ she answered simply. ‘You start a thing like that and — Well, you know how it is. . . .’

‘Hunh-hunh,’ nodded Mr. Rollins thoughtfully. ‘ All very jolly and — er — homelike, is n’t it?’ he said after a long pause and with an elaborately elegant accent.

‘Oh, quite,’ Miss Canby agreed, as elegantly.

Mr. Rollins pulled down the lid of his roll-top desk and rose. ‘I’ll go to the courthouse and see what can be done for your orphan.’

II

Superintendent Gooby’s dread that getting Julius Pokagan into the State University Hospital would be too much trouble proved a well-grounded fear. For days Miss Canby filled blanks — she had n’t known there were that many blanks in the world — answering the interminable rows and ranks and columns and tiers of questions with which all the forms bristled: What disease was Julius Pokagan suffering from? (Which was easy.) And where had he contracted it? And why? (Which was not so easy.) Was his father living? And how? And was his mother dead? And what for? And what had all his grandfathers and all his grandmothers died of? And where? And when? And where were all his brothers and all his sisters? And if he had none, why? And why could n’t his father pay his expenses at the hospital? They positively dared Miss Canby to prove he could not afford it.

Miss Canby would sit on the edge of a bed in the boys’ building, or on the porch if it was a sunny day, and interview Julius. She would ask him all about his grandfathers and all about his grandmothers, the home which his father did not have, his father’s past, present, and future financial status, his own dead mother, his dead brothers, his dead sisters, his poverty, his illness, his inability to support himself, his utter destitution and misery, stopping only at why in the world he had ever been born. And to everything Julius would answer patiently that he did not know. Miss Canby would then return to her office, sit down at her typewriter, and as answer to about three fourths of the questions write ‘Unknown’ and ‘Information not procurable,’ varying this at thoughtful intervals with a ‘Not known.’ Then she would mail all the papers and get them all back within a week because of ‘insufficient information,’ whereupon she would repeat her performance, squeezing stray bits of minor information from Julius each time, and get the same results.

One day she told herself she’d had enough of this and sat down and typed neat and appropriate answers to all the questions — answers as compatible with the truth as the meagre facts at her command and common sense would warrant — and, behold, the papers were approved.

They were about to be returned to her for certification and the superintendent’s signature when a sharp young man at the courthouse drew the attention of all and sundry to the undeniable fact that Clarabella County, in which the Indian school was situated and from which the application was being filed, was not the county in which Julius Pokagan claimed legal residence (as if Julius had ever claimed anything anywhere, thought Miss Canby), and that therefore the said Julius Pokagan could not lawfully receive financial aid from the said Clarabella County.

As far as Julius himself knew, he never had lived in any county whatever. Then, as if to make up for this deficiency, he presented them with a most appalling list of towns, communities, lumber camps, cities, fisheries, villages, basket factories, and berry fields where he at some time or other had had his being.

From this list Miss Canby eventually picked out a town which she thought Julius seemed to like somewhat better than any of the other places mentioned, surrounded it with a county, and wrote to the authorities thereof, who, of course, wrote back expressing doubt as to the legality of Julius’s residence there. So she wrote again, and they wrote again. The argument lasted two weeks. Then, totally exhausted by such an onslaught of letters, telegrams, and affidavits as they had never experienced before, the enemy surrendered.

This time Miss Canby, having profited by her previous experience, did not waste valuable hours consulting the harassed Julius, and he was permitted to cough without interruption while she put the right answers in the right places; and Mr. Rollins, a man of many accomplishments, put his seal where all good notaries’ seals should be.

At last everything was ready, but, the weather being particularly fine just then, Mr. Gooby was very busy. Indeed, it was all of two days before Mr. Gooby could be enticed into his office to sign the stack of papers and letters that had accumulated on his desk. When finally he did come, Miss Canby, looking her youngest and most guileless, tripped in girlishly after him.

‘Oh, Mr. Gooby,’ she trilled, ‘I’m awfully sorry to have been so long at these papers. I know how terribly anxious you were to get Julius Pokagan into that hospital, but — ’

‘Who’s Julius Pokagan?’

‘Why, he’s the boy you told me to send to the University Hospital. I know you think I should have had these papers ready long ago, but — See? To save time I’ve checked with a red pencil all the places where you are to sign. I know how awfully busy you are. I’m so sorry, really; I know so well how much you like to have everything done promptly, particularly if it’s anything that concerns the pupils. ’

‘Er—’ Mr. Gooby had signed in two places where there were red check marks and was now scratching his head with the pen. ‘This boy’s goin’ to the hospital, is he?’

‘Yes. He’s the one you’ve been worrying about so. . . . Right there where the red mark is. I think it was wonderful of you to think of the University Hospital. I could n’t think of anything. . . . Yes, right there where the red mark is. You’ve no idea the amount of work there was to these papers, Julius living so — here’s another one — Julius living so far away. . . . No, no! Oh my, no! Here where you see the red mark. That’s it. I’ll take them down myself and mail them right on the train; that will save at least one day. I know how you feel about all this delay.’

Mr. Gooby had not the faintest idea what it was all about, but could see no reason why he should say so. Probably something he had told Miss Canby to attend to. Gee, you had to hand it to Miss Canby; she never forgot anything he told her. She sure was a peach of a clerk.

A few days later Miss Canby sat down at her desk, drew the Register of Pupils to her, opened it at the P’s, slid her finger down to Pokagan, Julius; followed this line to age, sixteen; tribe, Pottowatomi, full-blood; father, Louis Pokagan; latest residence, Star Village; and so on through to the ‘Remarks’ column. There she wrote: ‘T.B.; Com. S. U. Hosp. Nov. 10.’

III

Now Mr. Gooby, busy man that he was, could not very well be bothered with applications for the enrollment of children, letters from parents to their children at the school, or to him about the latest development in ‘my little Nora’s itch, and I don’t think that doctor you got is any good,’ or Johnny’s ambition to play in the band, ‘and please let him blow one them big musics, Mr. Gooby, becuz I no he can do fine in dat biznis.’

These letters Mr. Gooby prided himself he could identify by a single glance at the dingy envelopes with the slanting addresses written in lead pencil and smeared with the prints of soiled fingers. Anxious to save all the time possible, — especially if it was the hunting season, or the fishing season, or the golf season, or any other kind of season, — he would lay aside unopened all these ‘Indian letters,’ as he called them, and when he was through with the rest of the mail deposit them in a neat pile on Miss Canby’s desk for her attention. Miss Canby, he knew, was well acquainted with the children, their parents, and all their affairs, so that there was no reason why he should waste his time on ‘that kind of junk.’ Besides, it made very little difference how the letters were answered, because the Indians were bound to kick about something anyhow.

Among these letters a week later Miss Canby found one from Julius Pokagan. He said the hospital was fine, the doctors were fine, the nurses were fine, and he himself was feeling fine, and would Mr. Gooby please send him a suit of underwear and a pair of socks, if the government would let him, because the nurse said he ought to have a change, and could he please have a nightgown, always provided the government had no objections, because the nurse said he ought to have one.

Miss Canby went in to see the superintendent, who, on account of the rain, was actually in his office just when he was wanted.

‘Mr. Gooby,’ said Miss Canby, ‘you know Julius Pokagan —’

‘Who’s Julius Pokagan?'

‘He’s that boy you sent to the University Hospital.’ One could state plain facts like that to Mr. Gooby and be assured he would accept them without asking a lot of embarrassing questions, because Mr. Gooby was very proud of the quality of his memory, and it would be unlike him to admit he had forgotten all about whatever it was one was talking about.

4 Who — me?’ said Mr. Gooby, looking surprised in spite of himself.

‘Yes. And they sent him away without any extra clothing. They actually did,’ said Miss Canby, looking very indignant, ‘after all you said about outfitting him completely.’ Mr. Gooby’s blue eyes blinked as be tried to remember all this. ‘He went away with nothing! Nothing at all except what he had on his back!’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. And he wants to know if you would be so awfully kind as to send him some — er — some shirts and — well, everything. ’

‘M’m . . .’ Mr. Gooby pondered seriously; he was n’t going to let anybody put anything over on him. ‘Er — is he an Indian?’

Miss Canby stared. Even for Mr. Gooby this was going a bit far.

‘You see,’ Mr. Gooby explained kindly, as one might to a child who was, perhaps, just a bit dull, which was exactly what Miss Canby looked like just then, ‘we could n’t send government stuff to anyone who was n’t an Indian, you know.’

‘Why — why, but he’s a pupil of this school!’

‘Is that so?’ said Mr. Gooby, with new interest.

‘Shall I send him what he needs?’

‘Huh?’ Mr. Gooby looked startled.

‘Shall I send him some underwear and socks and everything?’

‘Does he want underwear?’

’ Yes. And he wants a nightgown.’

Mr. Gooby pondered again, heavily. And then all of a sudden he became a big man, a big man interrupted in the plotting of large affairs for the purpose of considering a problem of no importance whatever.

‘It is of no consequence,’ he said, just the way he once had heard a man say it; ‘it is of no consequence whatever. ’

‘Thank you, Mr. Gooby. Oh, thank you,’ said Miss Canby.

Back in her office she leaned against the wall and feebly beat her head against it. But not for long — Julius had been without a nightgown too long already. She must see the property clerk.

Underwear, socks, a belt, handkerchiefs. shoes, shirts, corduroy trousers, a sweater, and three flannelette nightshirts.

‘It will cheer him up receiving packages in the mail,’ Miss Canby told Mr. Rollins, as she wrapped each article in a separate bundle, — they would be franked anyway, — ‘and the greater the number of packages the cheerfuler he will be. And that’s good for him.’

In the greasy little pile on her desk a few days later Miss Canby found another letter from Julius. ‘Dear Mr. Gooby,’ he wrote, ‘I just got the packages you sent me. I like everything you sent just fine. The nightgown was fine and I sure was glad to get it. I felt kinda cheap sleeping in my drawers. I sure thank you a lot for everything. I had to stay in bed three days because I was kinda tired, but I am up now and feeling fine. And I don’t mind going to bed any more now I got a nightgown like the other guys. I wrote to my father but I got no anser. I wanted a quarter so I could get a haircut, I look funny this way. Yours truly, Julius Pokagan. P.S. How are the boys getting along with their basketball? Did they win that game at Lima? I sure wish I could of been there to see them play. I ’ll be glad to get back to school. It’s fine here but there aint much for a guy to do. I ’ll be back soon. ’

‘The poor kid!’ Miss Canby whispered to herself, and forthwith wrote him a long letter. She wrote it on the typewriter, three pages long, singlespaced. It told all about the basketball game at Lima, a later one at Rosedale, and another at Grover. At the bottom she affixed Mr. Gooby’s flamboyant signature by means of a rubber stamp, because she liked to save Mr. Gooby as much trouble as possible, and such were his instructions anyhow.

And Julius wrote right back, with a stamp ‘the nurse give me,’ and said that sure was a fine letter Mr. Gooby had written him and he ‘sure appreshated it.’ This he repeated three times, after thanking Mr. Gooby for sending him to such a fine hospital, after saying how fine he felt, and after expressing his certainty of being back at the school ‘in a week maybe,’ and from then on he wove it in and out, among wistful references to a haircut, unconscious revelations of loneliness, and badly concealed yearning for his father.

With Christmas so near Miss Canby was very busy, but, her desk finally cleared, she went to the school building. Having obtained permission from the teachers, — Miss Canby was a tactful person if nothing else, and she knew that a man jealous of his wife is sweetness and light when compared to an Indian school employee jealous of his authority, — she asked each class if anyone among them knew Louis Pokagan, the father of Julius Pokagan.

A few knew him, several had heard of him, but no one could tell her where he was. A few gave addresses, more or less exact, of lumber camps where it was rumored Mr. Pokagan had been seen.

She returned to the office with eleven addresses in all, and wrote to Louis Pokagan at every one of them. Two addresses she forwarded to Julius, with a note signed with Mr. Gooby’s name, enclosing a book of stamps and, ‘under separate cover,’ a tablet, some envelopes, a pencil and pencil sharpener.

Julius’s reply was almost hysterical. He said Mr. Gooby was the linest and the kindest man he had ever known. Now he was writing to his father and he had counted the days and he was sure the answer would come next Tuesday. He was so happy he felt ’kinda crazy like,’ he said. It seemed he could not wait until he heard from his father and got the money for that haircut. He was not homesick or anything; he just wanted a haircut. And what were the boys at the school going to do at Christmas? And was it really true they were going to get presents by mail? He had never heard of such a thing, he said, but he thought it was a swell idea.

Miss Canby wrote him another long letter — over Mr. Gooby’s name — in which she told him they had written to his father and as soon as they received a reply they would notify him. She closed by saying the boys were going to write to him and give him all the news.

At the boys’ building she sought out the disciplinarian — occupied just then in removing some live rats from a drawer in the bureau of an enterprising young hunter who, already having sold the rats’ tails for a bounty, was now herding the rats in his dresser in the fond belief that they would soon produce another crop of tails for further merchandising — and had a nice talk with him. Mr. Eagle Man approved of everything she said, and at noon when she passed the boys’ building on her way to her dinner at the club his voice, raucously orating, came to her from the basement where the boys were lined up for their march to the dining room. ‘Hey, you guys,’ he was saying, ‘what’s matter with you? Ain’t you got no heart? There’s that fella, Julius Pokagan, so sick he’s gonna die maybe, an’ not one of you’s got the kindness to write him even a li’l letter. Listen to me, you guys! You write that fella a letter, see? You write him an’ tell him what’s goin’ on here, see? And say, listen, to-night I’m gonna ask you did you write to him, an’ if you ain’t — well, there’s gonna be no trip to town for you nex’ Sat’day. See? You don’t write a letter to Julius Pokagan an’ you don’t get no trip to town nex’ Sat’day. Un’stand? . . .’

IV

By December 18 the eleven letters sent out to Mr. Louis Pokagan had all been returned, marked ‘Unknown’ and ‘Not called for.’ On December 19 Julius wrote. He had received thirteen letters from the boys at the school, he said, and it was with great pleasure he had read them all.

There was, of course, the inevitable postscript. ‘I want to see my father, Mr. Gooby,’ wrote Julius. ‘I mean I want to get a letter from him. I want him to write to me because I just got to have a haircut. I was in bed with a cold but I am well now, and I don’t like to ask for another favor after all you already done for me, Mr. Gooby, but if you can find my father I sure will appreshate it. Do you think you can find him soon? He did n’t anser my letters.’

The poor, poor kid! Was there anywhere in the world anything as sad as sad children at Christmas, Miss Canby wondered. Children . . . children at Christmas. . . .

But it was no good fussing; it always would be like that. There always would be forgotten, lonely, unloved, unwanted children. There always had been. Even the first Christmas: night and lighted windows and a star, and a Child for whom there had been no room. . . .

‘My, are n’t the days getting short, though?’ It was Mrs. Twoheart, a small, glib woman who had recently learned to spell her name in one word instead of two, and, even more recently, to call her oldest boy Junior. ‘Just think, there’s Junior not back from school yet and it’s dark already. That’s why I had to come after the mail myself, because Mr. Twoheart’s got to take my cousin down to the train. She’s been visiting me, but now she wants to get back home for Christmas. Mrs. St. Jean, her name is. She’s part French like me—Chippewa and French. There’s lots like that around Star Village there where she lives.’

‘Star Village?’

‘Yeh. That’s my home, too. And my cousin —’

‘Mrs. Twoheart! Mrs. Twoheart, do you know Louis Pokagan?’

‘No, I don’t know him. But my cousin, Mrs. St. Jean, she knows him. Her husband saw him at a lumber camp not long ago.’

‘Just a minute! Please wait just a minute!’

Miss Canby was typing furiously. The letter ripped out of the machine and an envelope went in. ‘Louis Pokagan,’ she wrote, and tore the envelope out, slapped the stamp with Mr. Gooby’s name at the bottom of the letter, jumped up, grabbed her sweater with one hand and Mrs. Twoheart with the other, and made for the door.

Ten minutes later she was back in her office sorting Christmas packages. Mrs. St. Jean, in the back seat of Mr. Twoheart’s automobile, had promised Miss Canby, on the running board, that she would do all she could to find Louis Pokagan and place in his hands the letter Miss Canby had given her.

All the next day Miss Canby sorted packages, rewrapping the damaged ones and pasting labels on each gift that Santa Claus might make no mistake when handing them out on Christmas Eve and break a heart by giving a package to the wrong child.

But there was no package for Julius Pokagan. Obviously Julius was going to be among those left out — that pitiful quota of unremembered children who yearly sat waiting in vain for Santa Claus to call their names. Miss Canby remembered the stiff smiles which they all, without exception, placed on their shamed, disappointed faces. ‘I’ll just have to do something about it this year,’ she told herself.

That night after she had gone to bed she had an idea. A women’s club in Chicago had ‘adopted’ some children at the school. These children were not registered with the club by name, but merely as ‘fifteen boys’ and ‘fifteen girls,’ all to be ‘strictly full-blooded Chippewas.’

In this day and age! scoffed Miss Canby. And with four tribes living as one within the confines of one state! And how many strictly full-blooded anythings are there anywhere?

She would open that box and select appropriate gifts for each of the ‘leftouts,’ as they were called. And after this foray if anything was left the strictly full-blooded protegees could have it. Of course, if nothing was left it would be too bad, and she hoped the Chicago ladies would not mind. . . .

But she could not send Julius a haircut. She might send him a dollar, however. . . .

She thought hard for several moments, then slipped a nice white sheet into her typewriter and wrote: ‘Julius Pokagan, one of our pupils, is ill at the State University Hospital. He is alone and without money; will you subscribe ten cents so that he may have at least a few pennies for Christmas?’ And below she listed the names of the fortytwo men and women employed at the school.

All but three subscribed. Two of these were away, and the third, Superintendent Gooby, said he did n’t believe in it, because, ‘lookit,’ they’d never done it before and it would be a fine thing, would n’t it, if they started giving ten cents to every boy and girl that got sick! He said it would be establishing a bad precedent, and Miss Canby knew it would.

Three dollars and ninety cents. Miss Canby added one dollar and ten cents from her own purse, deeming this only fair since she was the promoter of the unique enterprise, and poured the whole five dollars in nickels and dimes into a box and wrapped it up like the others.

‘But why put it in a box?’ Mr. Rollins asked. ‘ Why not send him your check for the amount? Or buy him a money order?’

‘Men,’ said Miss Canby sententiously, ‘have no imagination.’

V

At one o’clock the day before Christmas Miss Canby walked into the office and found Julius Pokagan’s father sitting near the door — a clean, tranquil little Indian man in a large overcoat. He said Mrs. St. Jean had given him a letter from a man ‘by name Mr. Gooby,’ and that the letter said his boy Julius was sick and that he was to write to him at the hospital.

‘I can’t write,’ said Mr. Pokagan simply, ‘so I am going to the hospital to talk to Julius. But I have to change cars in this town, and while I am waiting for my train I walk up here to tell Mr. Gooby he is very kind to write to me about my boy.’

Miss Canby, restraining an impulse to hug the little man, told him Mr. Gooby was very busy. But she promised to deliver Mr. Pokagan’s message of gratitude as soon as Mr. Gooby returned.

‘I’ll drive you back to the station in the government car,’ she said, ‘because I’m afraid you ’re a bit late.’

Which she did. And which was wrong, even if Mr. Pokagan had only twelve minutes in which to make his train and one mile to go, because the rules and regulations state that no government-owned vehicle may be used except on official business. This grave infraction she rectified, however, by calling at the post office for a load of mail before returning to the school, thus legitimatizing the expedition. Incidentally, she did n’t think of this clever expedient for circumventing the law because she was bright, but because she had seen it done some few thousand times.

Christmas was on Tuesday. Wednesday afternoon a letter arrived from Julius, his usually neat and precise handwriting an almost illegible scrawl that rambled and zigzagged all over the paper and finally fell over the edges.

Miss Canby read it. Having reached the last page she sat for a long time looking at it. Then she went into the chief clerk’s office. She looked awed. ‘Read it,’ she said, and laid Julius’s letter on Mr. Rollins’s desk. ‘I’m going to the washroom to make a fool of myself.’

There were six pages of it, each page more incoherent than the last, more despairing of adequate words. The tormented effort of a sensitive boy, shy, inarticulate product of generations of repression, to speak a joy for which no words sublime enough had ever been written.

Then at the end: ‘I feel kinda cheap writing to you like this so mushy like, but gee, I got to say something and believe me it aint nothing to the way I feel.5 And, strengthened by this brief respite, he flung reticence and every inhibition to the winds with fine abandon and signed himself, ‘Yours lovingly, Julius.’

Yours lovingly. Mr. Rollins stared at the two words incredulously, and then, because he knew his Indians, shivered a little. Yours lovingly! Julius Pokagan, Pottowatomi full-blood, stirred to despair by the coldness of English words, in a moment of transcending emotion had taken his heart in his bare, tremulous hands and laid it, all stark and quivering, at the feet of Mr. Gooby.

Across the bottom of the page a last line straggled: ‘This is the happiest Christmas of my life.’

‘It’s really Mr. Gooby’s letter,’ Miss Canby, her face freshly powdered, said thoughtfully a few moments later.

‘Is it?’ said Mr. Rollins.

‘Don’t you think that if he were to read it, perhaps —’ She sighed. ‘Suppose at the end he were to say, “Who’s Julius Pokagan?”’

‘Which he would. Provided he read that far. Which he would not.’

But Miss Canby was n’t satisfied; she felt that somehow, in some way, something precious was being wasted.

The next morning she was in the chief clerk’s office taking a telegram over the telephone when Mr. Gooby came in, all crisp and cold and shining, and looking like the entire Christmas season all by himself.

‘Merry Christmas!’ he cried genially. ‘I could n’t come to the office yesterday; I had some business out of town. How’s every little thing?’

‘All right, I guess,’Mr. Rollins told him.

‘Merry Christmas, Miss Canby!’ said Mr. Gooby, irrepressibly.

Miss Canby made a last pothook on the little pad beside the telephone and turned.

‘Merry Christmas,’ she said, a little absently.

‘Anything new?'

‘Well . . .’ She was looking at him thoughtfully. ‘Mr. Gooby, you remember Julius Pokagan?’

‘Who?’

‘Julius Pokagan.’

‘Who’s Julius Pokagan?’

‘Don’t you remember, Mr. Gooby? We sent him to the State University Hospital. Please try to remember,’ she said, with sudden intensity. ‘Please! We sent him clothes and — and things.'

‘Clothes?’

‘Yes! Yes! And he—he—’ She turned to him suddenly, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glistening. ‘He wrote you a letter, Mr. Gooby; won’t you read it? Please! It’s in my office. It’s a beautiful letter. I’ll go get — ’

‘Not just now, Miss Canby, not just now.’ Goodness, Miss Canby had looked as if she had been about to go and get the letter then and there. ‘I’m busy just now; I’ve got to go to town. Besides — well — well, I’ll tell you, Miss Canby: you answer it. You know all about these children, and really it does n’t make much difference what you say to them, you know. If it’s anything about clothes—I suppose that’s what he wants. Give an Indian something once and you ’ve got him on your back for the rest of your life. Well, if it’s anything about clothes —’ Mr. Gooby frowned portentously. ‘ Well — well, I don’t know that I’d send him any more clothes, Miss Canby. No. No, I would n’t send him anything more. Gee whiz, what’s he think this is, anyhow — the Salvation Army ? Where did you say he was ? ’

‘It doesn’t matter, Mr. Gooby. It does n’t matter at all. And I won’t send him anything more,’ she said quietly, and went into her own office.

There! Now he supposed he’d hurt her feelings. Too bad, of course, because it really did not matter what she sent to — er — What’s-his-name; but — well, it was the principle of the thing. You just had to let your employees know every once in so often that you were right there on the job. You had to be firm, that’s all; ruthless, even. Every big executive was. That was why he got along so well, got such wonderful results. Everybody knew he was boss! . . .

Alone in her office Miss Canby laid the little slip of paper with the mysterious hooks, curves, and dots that was a telegram on the desk before her and sat looking at it. Presently she drew the Register of Pupils toward her, opened it at the P’s, slid her finger down until she came to Pokagan, Julius; followed that line to age, sixteen; tribe, Pottowatomi, full-blood; father, Louis Pokagan; and so on through to the ‘Remarks’ column. She picked up her pen and under ‘T. B.; Com. S. U. Hosp. Nov. 10,’ wrote ‘ Died Dec. 26,’ and closed the book.