Then there was so much speculation about the right breed of cows and poultry. Mr. Webb first inclined to long-horns, then to short-horns; but Mrs. Webb cut the matter short by declaring for no horns; and to this day they have from ten to fifteen of these meek, subdued animals, so fat that they could not do much in the way of running from a cross cur if any such should attack them.
She had her own way, too, with the poultry. She soon banished the coarse, long-legged Buck’s county fowls, with their uncouth looking bodies. She said their tread was almost as heavy as a young colt’s; and, really, when she pointed to a dozen of them which were picking their way over a strawberry bed, her husband submitted in silence to the order given to the farmer, to prepare them for market. “And, David,” said Mrs. Webb, after the man had chased the fowls from the garden, “see what prospect there is of selling off our stock of Bantoms. It takes twenty of their eggs to make a pudding, and they lay no more eggs a day than other hens—and, David, when you return from Wicklowe, cross over to neighbour Haywood’s, and see what he will take for two or three pair of those old fashioned kind of hens—those full, broad breasted, pale speckled ones; sometimes a dingy yellow and sometimes brown and gray, with large spreading tails. Those are the only kind. But above all, David, see that they have flesh coloured legs; they fatten well; those with yellow or black legs are not worth raising—strange that people are so inattentive to such important matters.”
Sixteen years passed away, and time, as the little lady said, seemed to fly with them; every thing prospered. Mr. Banks, to their great surprise, never came near them. He contented himself with sending them a yearly present; and heard of the birth of each succeeding child with a fresh burst of merriment. Their children, all girls, were six in number; and their income was now about three thousand dollars a year.
Mr. Webb, in the most peaceable, unaccountable manner, had been allowed the pleasure of naming four of his children. Perhaps—for woman’s tenderness will sometimes increase—perhaps she felt for his first disappointment; and, as it rose out of the caprice of a relative of her own, she determined on remaining quiet, only resolving to interfere if an outrageously romantic name presented itself to his imagination.
The first child literally had no name until the birth of the second; then, as the “child,” or the “baby” could no longer distinguish it, they took it to the font and had it christened. The clergyman, old Mr. Saxeweld, was then a stranger to them, for through very shame they would not apply to their own pastor. He did not rightly understand what Mr. Webb said, when he demanded the name of the child, for he never, for a moment, dreamed of Gulliver. He asked over and over again, and still the sound of Glumdalclitch came to his ear. “Is it a French name?” said he, looking angrily at Mrs. Webb, who, nothing disconcerted by all this hubbub about the name, was enjoying the triumph which she should have over her husband when she got home, in telling him that there was one other person in the world beside herself who had not read Gulliver’s Travels.
Mr. Webb was ready to sink in the earth; he felt that he could at that moment renounce the world and all its vanities, as well as the child’s income, which had caused all this disgrace.
“I presume,” said Mr. Saxeweld, willing to put an end to the scene, “I presume it is a French name. Colombe—what?” But Mr. Webb was past appeal; he felt a hollow ringing in his ears; and, in time to save him from fainting, the child was christened Colombe.
The clergyman, a testy old man, was so provoked at what he thought stupidity in the father of the child, that he felt disposed to rebuke him; and when poor Mr. Webb turned to him, as he was leaving the church, to offer him the accustomed fee, he not only refused it, but broke out in this way—“Never come to me again; you, with a name bigger than your whole body; and which is too long for your mouth to utter. If it had not been for my knowledge of French, I should have christened your child Glumdalclitch, and it would have been serving you right if I had.”
After Colombe came Flora, then Rosa, then Imogen, then Christabelle; and, when the sixth was old enough for baptism, while Mr. Webb was deciding between Diana and Lilius, Mrs. Webb went to church during a week-day service, with a friend, and came home in triumph, with the only Christian name, as she said, in the family—it was Rebecca. Mr. Webb thanked his stars that it was no worse.
Old Mr. Banks made no other remarks, when he heard of the mistake in the child’s name, than that the income should now be divided between the children, as at the time he did not imagine that the little girl would ever have any rivals. When the little Rebecca was about two years old, the old gentleman took it into his head to pay the tiny family a visit, to see how they all looked together.