Pray don't stand, Mrs. Bobby; take a chair. I am not very
busy; I am only painting prickles on my gorse bushes, so we will
talk it over."
I shall not attempt to give you Mrs. Bobby's dialect in reporting my
various interviews with her, for the spelling of it is quite beyond
my powers. Pray remove all the h's wherever they occur, and insert
them where they do not; but there will be, over and beyond this, an
intonation quite impossible to render.
Mrs. Bobby bought her place only a few months ago, for she lived in
Cheltenham before Mr. Bobby died. The last incumbent had probably
been of Welsh extraction, for the cottage had been named 'Dan-y-
cefn.' Mrs. Bobby declared, however, that she wouldn't have a
heathenish name posted on her house, and expect her friends to
pronounce it when she couldn't pronounce it herself. She seemed
grieved when at first I could not see the absolute necessity of
naming the cottage at all, telling her that in America we named only
grand places. She was struck dumb with amazement at this piece of
information, and failed to conceive of the confusion that must ensue
in villages where streets were scarcely named or houses numbered. I
confess it had never occurred to me that our manner of doing was
highly inconvenient, if not impossible, and I approached the subject
of the name with more interest and more modesty.
"Well, Mrs. Bobby," I began, "it is to be Cottage; we've decided
that, have we not? It is to be Cottage, not House, Lodge, Mansion,
or Villa. We cannot name it after any flower that blows, because
they are all taken. Have all the trees been used?"
"Thank you, miss, yes, miss, all but h'ash-tree, and we 'ave no
h'ash."
"Very good, we must follow another plan. Family names seem to be
chosen, such as Gower House, Marston Villa, and the like. 'Bobby
Cottage' is not pretty. What was your maiden name, Mrs. Bobby?"
"Buggins, thank you, miss. 'Elizabeth Buggins, Licensed to sell
Poultry,' was my name and title when I met Mr. Bobby."
"I'm sorry, but 'Buggins Cottage' is still more impossible than
'Bobby Cottage.' Now here's another idea: where were you born,
Mrs. Bobby?"
"In Snitterfield, thank you, miss."
"Dear, dear! how unserviceable!"
"Thank you, miss."
"Where was Mr. Bobby born?"
"He never mentioned, miss."
(Mr. Bobby must have been expansive, for they were married twenty
years.)
"There is always Victoria or Albert," I said tentatively, as I wiped
my brushes.
"Yes, miss, but with all respect to her Majesty, them names give me
a turn when I see them on the gates, I am that sick of them."
"True. Can we call it anything that will suggest its situation?
