As it happened, Thowin was summoned to judgment first.  The door shut behind her with a click.

Judewin and I stood silently listening at the keyhole.  The paleface woman talked in very severe tones.  Her words fell from her lips like crackling embers, and her inflection ran up like the small end of a switch.  I understood her voice better than the things she was saying.  I was certain we had made her very impatient with us.  Judewin heard enough of the words to realize all too late that she had taught us the wrong reply.

“Oh, poor Thowin!” she gasped, as she put both hands over her ears.

Just then I heard Thowin’s tremulous answer, “No.”

With an angry exclamation, the woman gave her a hard spanking.  Then she stopped to say something.  Judewin said it was this:  “Are you going to obey my word the next time?”

Thowin answered again with the only word at her command, “No.”

This time the woman meant her blows to smart, for the poor frightened girl shrieked at the top of her voice.  In the midst of the whipping the blows ceased abruptly, and the woman asked another question:  “Are you going to fall in the snow again?”

Thowin gave her bad passwood another trial.  We heard her say feebly, “No!  No!”

With this the woman hid away her half-worn slipper, and led the child out, stroking her black shorn head.  Perhaps it occurred to her that brute force is not the solution for such a problem.  She did nothing to Judewin nor to me.  She only returned to us our unhappy comrade, and left us alone in the room.

During the first two or three seasons misunderstandings as ridiculous as this one of the snow episode frequently took place, bringing unjustifiable frights and punishments into our little lives.

Within a year I was able to express myself somewhat in broken English.  As soon as I comprehended a part of what was said and done, a mischievous spirit of revenge possessed me.  One day I was called in from my play for some misconduct.  I had disregarded a rule which seemed to me very needlessly binding.  I was sent into the kitchen to mash the turnips for dinner.  It was noon, and steaming dishes were hastily carried into the dining-room.  I hated turnips, and their odor which came from the brown jar was offensive to me.  With fire in my heart, I took the wooden tool that the paleface woman held out to me.  I stood upon a step, and, grasping the handle with both hands, I bent in hot rage over the turnips.  I worked my vengeance upon them.  All were so busily occupied that no one noticed me.  I saw that the turnips were in a pulp, and that further beating could not improve them; but the order was, “Mash these turnips,” and mash them I would!  I renewed my energy; and as I sent the masher into the bottom of the jar, I felt a satisfying sensation that the weight of my body had gone into it.