“O we are Winnebagos and we’re loyal friends and true,
We always work in harmony in everything we do,
We always think the weather’s fine, in sunshine or in snow,
We’re happy all the time because we’re maids of Wohelo!”
The echoes died away and then sprang into life again.
“For we are Winnebagos,
For we are Winnebagos,
For we are Winnebagos,
And that’s why we’re so spry!”
“A toast!” cried Nyoda, “a toast to the future!” And they drank it in the remains of the cocoa. Their eyes met as they clinked the cups, and overflowed. “Oh, my girls,” cried Nyoda, trying to get her arms around all of them at once, “there never was such a group! And there never will be such a group! I just can’t leave you!” Then she pulled herself up again. The time was passing and she must hasten, for she was leaving on the train late that night. Her marriage was to take place in the East. “Come, girls, ‘Mystic Fire.’” And once again their voices rose in musical chant: