“Oh,” explained Sahwah lightly, “I saw it written over the door of one of the historical buildings at the Exposition, and it sounded as if it might mean something grand, so I chose it. You girls were all delighted with it, so that’s proof it’s a good catch-word.”
“It is a good countersign,” said Nyoda, “although I confess I can’t tell wherein the charm lies.”
“Well, to proceed,” said Gladys, “after you have given the countersign you will be asked to give the Inner Pass Word, and then you must say ‘Kolah Olowan.’ That means ‘Song Friend.’ You know we pride ourselves on being a singing group, that is, we have a great many songs that we sing together, and I think our dearest friends are those we sing with. So we Winnebagos call each other ‘Song Friends,’ or friends bound together by the power of our familiar songs. That’s why we chose bird notes for our personal symbols. The birds are the original Song Friends. What bird are you going to choose for your own, Veronica?”
Veronica’s sad eyes stared thoughtfully into the fire for a moment. Then they filled with a smouldering light. “I shall be the gull that flies over the sea,” she said in a low voice, “because some day I am going to fly over the sea to my dear home.”
“We were all nearly ready to cry when she said that,” wrote Gladys to Migwan, “only Nyoda popped up then and asked Hinpoha and Sahwah to sing ‘The Owl and the Pussycat,’ and they climbed on the sofa for the beautiful pea-green boat—you know what a beautiful pea-green it is—and for a small guitar Nyoda gave Sahwah a little pasteboard fiddle that produced three notes when you turned a crank, and the whole thing was so ridiculous that we laughed until our sides ached.”
After the Owl and the Pussycat had sung themselves over the back of the sofa and down on the floor with a thump Nyoda made tea in her new electric teapot and passed platefuls of thin sandwiches, and Sahwah upset her cup into her lap demonstrating how perfectly she could balance it on her knee and had to stand before the fire to dry her skirt.
“You brought your violin along; won’t you play for us?” asked Nyoda of Veronica when the excitement over Sahwah’s mishap had subsided.
In graceful compliance with Nyoda’s request, and without waiting to be urged, Veronica took her violin from its case, settled it under her chin with a movement that was a caress, and drew the bow across the strings. With the first note teacups and sandwiches were forgotten and the girls sat in a spellbound circle, while Sahwah stopped mopping her skirt with her handkerchief and the wet spot dried and scorched unheeded. Such a witching melody as rose from the strings—now light as a fairy dancing on a bubble, now hurrying like the brook over its pebbles, now sighing like the wind in a rose tree, now slow and stately like the curtseying of a grande dame in the movements of a court dance. When it came to an end the girls sat breathless, too dazed to applaud.
“Play some more!” begged Gladys in a whisper. It seemed like a desecration to talk.
Veronica played on, now fast, now slow, now sad and now gay, and finally whirled into a wild gypsy dance that set the blood tingling in her hearers’ veins as the swift measures followed on each other’s heels, until they could see in their mind’s eye the leaping figures of the dancers in their bright costumes. Faster, faster, flashed the bow on the magic strings and Veronica’s whole soul was in her eyes as she played the familiar strains of her homeland. Her lips parted in a flashing smile and one foot tapped the carpet in time to the music.