“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.