dugout, but it was work thoroughly enjoyed. Lahoma's room was on
the west, and from noon to sundown, the advantage of the window was
a source of never-ending delight.

"Good thing we've got our window," Brick would say as they sat on
the low rude bench before the little stove, and the furious wind of
January howled overhead. Or, when the wintry sky was leaden and all
Brick's side of the partition was as dark as the hole of a
prairie-dog, he would visit Lahoma, and gloat over the dim gray
light stealing through the small panes. "That window's no bad
idea!" he would chuckle, stooping his great bulk cautiously as he
seated himself, as if to lighten his weight by doubling in upon
himself.

"Good thing I've got my window," Lahoma would say as the snow lay
thick on the plains and in broken lines all over the mountain, and
the cutting blast made the fire jump with sudden fright. She would
hold her book close to the dirt square in which the frame was
planted, and spell out words she had never heard used, such as
"lad," "lass," "sport," and the like mysteries. "This window is
going to civilize me, Brick."

It did not lessen their relish in the subject that they had
discussed it already a hundred times. It was the same way with the
hand-made bench, with the trench that carried water from their door
during sudden downpours, and with the self-congratulation over
owning two ponies to keep each other company.

"They's one thing about us, Lahoma, which it ain't according to the
big outside world, and yet I hope it won't never be changed. We are