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Updated: July 18, 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.
"Her tunic is of silver, Her veil of green tree-hair, The woodland Princess donning Her pomp of summer wear. White arms to heaven reaching, Shy buds that, tiptoe, meet The kiss of June's awaking, The season's hast'ning feet! Oh, sure, a laugh is lisping In each uncurling leaf; The joy of June is thrilling Some sense to transport brief! Sister of mine, White Birch Tree!
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