Father.—This would all be very well, if it were probable that our history in this country, and the names we shall have bestowed, were likely to be objects of public curiosity; but in the mean while, you forget that our own organs will be fatigued, by frequently pronouncing such barbarous names as you propose.
Jack.—How shall we manage then? What pretty names can we find?
Father.—We will do as all sorts of nations have done before us. We will name the places by different words from our own language, that shall express some particular circumstance with which we have been concerned.
Jack.—Well, so we will; I shall like this still better. Where shall we begin?
Father.—We shall naturally begin with the bay by which we entered this country. What shall we call it? What say you, Fritz? You must speak first, for you are the eldest.
Fritz.—Let us call it Oyster Bay: you remember what quantities of oysters we found in it.
Jack.—Oh, no! let it rather be called Lobster Bay; for you cannot have forgot what a large one it was that caught hold of my leg, and which I carried home to you.
Ernest.—Why then we may as well call it the Bay of Tears, for you must remember that you roared loud enough for all of us to hear you.
My Wife.—My advice would be that, out of gratitude to God, who conducted us hither in safety, we ought to call it Providence Bay, or the Bay of Safety.
Father.—This name is both appropriate and sonorous, and pleases me extremely. But what name shall we give to the spot where we first set up our tent?