“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.”