"Let's give them a new one at once."
"Well, begin."
"Let us call them the Falls of the Melting Snow," suggested the sentimental May Blossom.
"That would do in the spring, when the snow is really melting," said Joe Jobson, a plain, practical young fellow, who never had a gleam of fancy in his life; "but there's no snow there now, I reckon."
"What a heathen you are, Jobson!" broke in honest Allthings (who always spoke out); "the name applies to the water, not the snow!"
"Why not the name of the Falls of the Silver Lace?" asked the tall, superb Lydia Lydell, who was also given to poetry.
"Was there ever any lace made there?" again remarked Jobson.
"I move we call them by an Indian name," said Job Paddock, the schoolmaster, who was deep in Indian lore. "Let us call them The Kah-youk-weh-reh Ogh-ne-ka-nos, or, The Arrow Water, or The Water of the Arrow; just as you fancy."
"Kaw—what?" again interrupted Jobson; "a real queer name that—Kah-you-qweer-reh Oh-cane-my-nose!"
"Do hold your tongue, Jobson!" said Claypole, "you are enough to drive one crazy!"