WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Auckland Star, Volume LXI, Issue 217, 13 September 1930, Page 1 (Supplement)

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

COUNTRY PROBLEMS.

LABELLING ANIMALS.

(By M.E.S.)

"Gertainlv not," I said firmly. "Imagine a cow with the name of Peerless Pride or Princely Prowess on this farm! How could I ever introduce her to our cowshed? I ehould blush with ehame." "Well, what about this <me," Atiti suggested hopefully. "Dancing Dryad of Dunnyvale's Delight? She sounds splendid; her mother's butterfat record" —"No dancing dryads for me," I interrupted coldly. "Old Strawberry leads me quite dance enough in the bush i a3 it is."

It was a momentous occasion, for Ann's godmother had suddenly remembered her birthday and come to light with a goodly cheque. But the gift was ear-marked. "I should like you, my dear, to buy a nice little pedigree heifer or cow with the money," wrote the amiable old lady. "Preferably one of those pretty dove-eyed Jerseys." Accordingly we were searching the pages of a farm journal for advertisements of highsounding dairy stock—and very high .they were, ia -same and in price. Ann was enjoying herself, rolling forth the old heroic names most unctuously. "What about this 1" she asked presently. "Blooming Begonia of Beatrice's Beauty how poetical that sounds! I'm sure Aunt Lavinia would love it." "There's certainly something in that particular alliteration," I conceded thoughtfully. "It sounds more my style." "Too much so," said Ann, briefly and finally. "I've heard you do quite enough alliteration with Brindle's name when she set her foot in the bucket." Names and Friendship. In the end money talked, as it always does. Aunt Lavinia's cheque would not eoar to the progeny of Dryad or Nymph. We bought a very nice" little heifer from a neighbour and I spent a pleasant, evening concocting an alliterative pedigree, •whilst A Tin reckoned how many tradesmen she could "oblige with a trifle on account" from the balance of that cheque. I stood firm, however, when Ann wanted to call the gift "Lavinia." I have eeen too many friendships broken thus. "Well, I think it's the least we can do after cheating the poor old dear. "Besides," add-ed Ann illogically, "she won't know; she never comes up here." "I've noticed," I replied bitterly, 4i that to call beasts after them is the surest way to bring relatives to this house.- Whoever would have dreamt of Uncle Percy coming?" That had certainly been a blow, for, in happier days, Uncle Percy could I always be relied upon for a steady fiver at Christmas. I don't deny the pig was like him, but we should have resisted the temptation to christen Mm. "We simply must," Ann had pleaded. ."He's got exactly the same eyes and just look at that wrinkle in the left cheek." I had weakly yielded and then the telegram announcing-my uncle's arrival had fallen like a bolt from the blue. Together we had sworn tremendous oaths of secrecy, but Percy had become so much one of the household that the end was inevitable "Where's Percy's breakfast? I Bad'asked rashly the second morning, and had noticed my relative eyeing the bucket of swill coldly. Later I saw him hanging 1 over the pig-stye fence in dreadful fascination—and last Christmas he sent me six pocket handkerchiefs, and not even linen at that. Imitative Propensities. Yes it is fatal to give rein to that faculty for seeing likenesses; not only do you offend your nearest and dearest, but you run grave risks with the characters of defenceless beasts. If one Hves among animals, it is impossible to deny their imitative character. Let one m an, and that man only, ride a certain Srse for ten years, and the beast inevitably absorbs some of its master s haracteristics. I have a dour difficult old bachelor neighbour and he has a Gloved horse. Paddy's face has changed with the years; his lower Up hangs Pendulous as his masters, his eye gleams fSlenlY his whole aspect is manifestly «ai£thegovernment." Yet I remembefhim a dozen years ago the property of a blameless vicar, and a peaceable, so Lo'the lives and characters of their owSrs that their own natures have Some absorbed with the. passing of the S* until the death of their idol has Xually pet a* end to an existence become purely parasitic. • However, that may be, I am inclined +o a«ree that the naming of an. animal should not be rashly or fortuitously JZT It may be purest coincidence, but from the moment that Ann S&« rooster Kmg.ford Smith could contain him, and

the ■ naming of her pet lamb "Babble" may have had something to do with its imitation of its namesake of South Sea fame; both came to a like untimely end. I always have felt, too, that my grey's habit of suddenly and disastrously rearing might have been checked, but for his name; but, having been called "Skylark" he felt it incumbent upon him "higher still and higher" from the earth to spring. Shakespearean Calves.

Our neighbours are content for the most part with such names as "the brown mare," "that there yaller dog," or, in moments of originality "Roany" and even "Gladys." But the fanciful christening of the beast creation is almost a mania with Ann. When we first began to milk, she had still something of the poet's soul, and so our first lot of calves were purely Shakespearean; the sprightliest amongst them was Mercution; Falls taff early showed signs of excessive fat; while Juliet wa3 unquestionably a minx. She would call them to their milk with "Ducdame," which unfortunately was interpreted by the neighbours as a "' nasty foreign swear," and our reputation suffered accordingly. Kipling had the next turn; but Mowgli died young, The Maltese Cat showed an j anpleasant tendency to kick slyly, and The Brushwood Boy died in a bog. Certainly it was a- severe winter, but I noticed that Ann became a- little caustic about Mr. Kipling. "Let's call our calves just Tansy , and 'Dolly,' like the frowns' herd. They didn't lose a calf last winter," she said gloomily. Personally I fancied that the fact that the Browns' farm was the best of Waikato land might have something to do with it. However, it's no use arguing with Ann, and for a season convention won the day. I But not for long. "Poor dears, they have such dull lives, they ought at least to i have jolly names." said my wife, and so Tess rubs shouders -with Katisha. smd Portia and Fleur Forsyte are milked side by side. Old Simple Names. For myself, Tarn for the old simple names—the Dollys, Strawberrys and Whitefoots; such were the homely titles of the patient, mild-eyed cows that have walked sedately down the ao-es in English literature, and in my heart of hearts I like them the best. Moreover, disaster so often follows upon originality, in. names as in life. Peter Sim's was a case in point. Now Peter was a bit of a lad, but cherished high expectations from an aunt who had long identified herself militantry with the cause of prohibition. Under the circumstances, it was sheer madness in Peter to name hia two horses —a light chestnut and a dirty white—''Whisky" and "Soda." He lived in the way-back, had to ride out to the nearest township, and often when the roads were bad to camp upon the way. When the disaster happened, Peter "blamed the officiousness of his manager in sending the telegram at all, but the fault .lay rather in his carelessness in leaving the message where the old lady could find it. The wire read, "Bringing whisky to meet you, be' prepared for night out," and, as his aunt remarked sadly, "The poor bov was hopelessly addicted —couldn't even. wait, till he got home." -_