“I like the straps much better,” she declared. “And the buckles look so pretty flashing in the sunlight. Much prettier than your old lamp wicks. They’ll be dirty in no time.” And they could not induce her to change the bindings.
Followed days of learning how to run on snowshoes. It was not so very difficult, after all, not nearly so hard as the skiing Sahwah had tried the winter before. There were tumbles, of course, when they struck unexpected snags, but the snow was soft and no one was hurt. Hinpoha was glad she didn’t change her smart buckle binding for the wicking-thong affair of the others, because hers looked much nicer, and there was no occasion for getting out of them suddenly. The first day everybody returned home full of enthusiasm for the new sport. Sahwah in particular was so anxious for the morrow to come when she could be at it again, that she could hardly go to sleep. But when she woke up in the morning she felt a strange disinclination to get up. Her limbs ached so fiercely that she could hardly stand. Her muscles were so cramped and sore that she was ready to shriek with the pain. She limped stiffly into the class room half an hour late, to see Gladys going in just ahead of her, traveling with a sidewise motion like a crab, and stumbling as though her feet were made of wood. Poor Hinpoha never appeared in school at all that day. “What’s the matter with us?” they groaned, dropping into Nyoda’s class room at lunch hour. “We’re ruined for life.” Nyoda could not conceal a smile of amusement. “I knew you’d get it,” she said, with gentle raillery. “That’s why I advised you not to stay out more than fifteen minutes the first day. But you were bound to stick to it all afternoon.”
“What did you know we’d get?” they asked in tones of concern. “Are we lamed for life?”
“Hardly as bad as that,” laughed Nyoda. “I have good hopes of your ultimate recovery. You have what the French call ‘mal de racquette’—the snowshoe sickness. You use a different set of muscles when snowshoeing than you do ordinarily, and these muscles become very stiff and sore. All you need is a little limbering oil. Little Sisters of the Snow, you are learning by experience!”
It was fully a week before either the Winnebagos or Sandwiches went snowshoeing again, although they made excellent excuses. Neither group would admit to the other that they had become stiff, and would not limp for worlds when in the sight of the others, although it nearly killed them to walk naturally. Nevertheless, they understood each other perfectly.
In February came a three days’ snow storm that covered the earth with a blanket several feet thick, and a slight thaw followed by a zero snap produced an excellent crust. The Winnebagos were having a solemn ceremonial meeting in the Open Door Lodge when without warning there was a sound of scrambling up the ladder and the Captain burst in among them.
“Oh, I say,” he shouted, and then stopped suddenly as he became aware that the girls were engaged in singing some kind of a motion song. “Excuse me,” he stammered in confusion, “I didn’t know you were having a pow-wow. I heard you singing up here and thought you were just having a good time.”
“What news can you be bringing that made you burst in on us in such a fashion?” said Nyoda sternly, but with a twinkle in her eye. “Speak sir, the queen commands.”
The Captain seemed ready to burst with his message and fired his words like bullets from an automatic pistol. “My Uncle Theodore’s here, you know, the one I said had been up north, and he knows a dandy place in the country where there are some log cabins and he wants us all to go down there on our snowshoes for a winter hike and stay three days over the Washington’s Birthday holiday. Oh, please, can you girls come?”
“But——” began Nyoda.