"What shall we name it?" asked my mother.
"Fiz," said one, alluding to the empty champagne cases,—a suggestion which was at once overruled, as we were a temperate family and little given to sparkling liquids. "Pop" was also voted against, not only as being vulgar, but as going to the other extreme, and leading people to suppose that we were extensively addicted to ginger-ale.
"I think, my dears, as Peter was born on a—" My mother's speech was interrupted by an exultant "Cock-a-doodle-do."
"That horrid fowl again!" exclaimed my mother.
The cock in question was the property of a neighbor, and was a most annoying bird. Even my kitten was disturbed by the defiant note. "M-e-w?" said he, in a meek interrogative, as much as to say, "What is that dreadful noise?"
"Cock-a-doodle-do," cried the bird again.
"Mew," replied the kitten, this time with a note of anger in his voice. "COCK-A-DOODLE," screamed the bird, evidently in a violent temper. "Mew," said the kitten again, in a tone of remonstrance. The remaining syllable of his war-cry and the kitten's reply were cut short by my mother, who put her fingers to her ears, and said:
"And the cock crowed thrice. My dears, I have it!"
"What, mother?"
"We'll call him PETER." cried the family.