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Updated: May 15, 2025
Went the phonograph upon the bungalow piazza, as it threw off the music, the quaint Indian accompaniment to those stamping, shuffling, skipping feet, to the queer little half-savage syllables, borrowed from the Creek Indians, upon the lips of the chanting, dancing girls, to the coconut hand-rattle wielded by Aponi, the Butterfly, most fairy-like of the green dancers, as she led and led, in honor of the new idlwissi, or tree-hair, the listening leaves ethereal partners overhead.
It's our anniversary day as a White Birch Group when we hold a sort of carnival in he afternoon in honor in honor of the de-ar birch trees just bursting into leaf." Aponi fluttered like green tree-hair, herself. "And that's to be followed whoopee! by a party: a real, full-blown June dance in the evening to which all the boys are invited.
"But we do do have such fun at our Get Togethers our picnics and parties," went on she, whose ceremonial name was Aponi the Butterfly of the mountain group. "Hur-ra-ah! There are two such Get Togethers coming off quite soon now one the day after to-morrow Saturday a picnic at Snowbird Cave, to explore some other caves afterwards upon the further side of the river, the blue Housatonic."
And all that color why! it paints the landscape," came flutteringly from Aponi, the White Birch Butterfly, least Priscilla-like in her tastes of the Group, when she was not in Camp Fire green, or soft-toned ceremonial dress. "Maybe 'twill paint the blues in old Tory Cave, if we run across them there," put in Tomoke, maiden of the flambeau and the fire-talk.
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