“It is like thyself, pale-faced maiden,” and he bowed. “Oh, that’s enough of this silliness!” exclaimed Mabel, breaking away from her brother who had tried to rub off some of the chalk from his cheeks to hers. “Wow!” yelled Jack, as he threw off his covering, his almost too-realistic war-whoop giving the girls starts of fright. “Come on to the council fire. It is chilly, even if it is May,” and, followed by the others they filed into the pleasant library. “First of all, let’s choose names,” suggested Mabel. “Did you look up any, Blake?” “There are quite a number in the book,” he explained. “I marked some. They’re not all in the same Indian language, but that won’t matter I guess.” “Not as long as they sound er—what’s that word we had in the lit. class the other day?” and Alice appealed to her chums. “Euphonious,” suggested Natalie. “That’s it! As long as they sound nice, and have some meaning, I don’t care whether mine is Chocktaw or Sioux.” “Say my name over again, Blake,” appealed Natalie. “Whisper of the pine tree—was that it?” “Very nearly. Chee-ne-Sagoo—breath of the pine tree—and it becomes you,” he added in a whisper. “Silly,” she remarked, in the same tone. “Did you find a word for bluebird?” asked Marie. “The nearest I could get to it was bluebird of the mountain,” replied Blake, leafing over the book. “Here it is in Indian—wah-tu-go-mo.” “Not so bad,” commented Marie. “That will be my name.” “Here are two more I picked out, though if you don’t like them I dare say I can find more,” and Blake read from a slip of paper: “Wep-da-se-nah—maiden of the green corn, and no-moh-te-nah—sweeper of the tepee. The last isn’t very romantic,” he apologized, “but it sounds nice—in Indian.” “I guess that fits me,” laughed Alice. “Father says I’m always sweeping and dusting. I’ll take it, unless you want it, Mabel.” “You may have it. I like maiden of the green corn.” “Even though you can’t boil water without burning it,” mocked Phil. “Go ahead—the more different the merrier.” “Is that a riddle?” asked Natalie. “No, it’s the truth.” “I think those names are just lovely!” declared Marie. “Let’s see now: chee-ne-sagoo—breath of the pine tree; that’s Natalie, and it just fits her,” and she blew a kiss from her finger tips, which salutation Blake pretended to catch as it fluttered by, saving it from a fall, and, more or less gracefully conveying it by proxy to its destination—also by blowing it from his hand. Natalie blushed slightly. “Then there’s no-moh—no-moh—Oh, I can’t remember it, Blake,” and Marie appealed to him. “No-moh-te-nah—sweeper of the tepee.” “Yes, that’s Alice. Mabel is wep-da-se-nah—maiden of the green corn, and I’m wah-tu-go-mo—bluebird of the mountain. All of them charming, I think—much too nice for me, mine is.” “They all become you,” declared Jack, with an exaggerated bow. “We’ll have to write them down or we’ll forget them,” suggested Natalie, as she twirled the silver ring on her finger.