The little girls were
sliding down hill on boards and broken shovels, cast-off dripping-pans
and ash-pans--everything, indeed, that could be seized on for coasting.
A group of large and middle-sized girls were walking over the mission
pasture, stretching for a mile on every side. Another band of girls was
packed into a long, wide bob-sled on the point of starting with the
white mother to the little log post office down the river.
"Very lots of fun, and I am being punished here in bed!" Cordelia said
to herself, mournfully. "Now the bob-sled starts, and very loud the
sleigh-bells ring. The white mother drives, and she must hold the lines
so tight, for very fast the horses want to go. We go to the post office
by the al-pha-bet on Saturday, and this day it is the P's and R's--there
are no Q's--so it is my turn. Very fast I meant to feather-stitch, so I
could spare the time to go. Ee! There is Hannah Straight Tree in my
place. She made me talk Dakota and get punished. Now she gets my
sleigh-ride!" And Cordelia Running Bird threw herself back upon the
pillow, giving vent to wild, resentful tears.
When the tears had spent themselves the Indian girl raised her head and
saw the little book on the other pillow.
"Tokee! The white mother put it here.
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