t to decide on a name and begin using it.

"Oh, very well," says I. "I'll be thinking one up."

Seemed simple enough. Course, I'd never named any babies before, but I
had an idea I could dig out half a dozen good, serviceable monickers
between then and dinner-time.

Somehow, though, I couldn't seem to hit on anything that I was willing
to wish on to the youngster offhand. When I got right up against the
problem, it seemed kind of serious.

Why, here was something he'd have to live with all his life; us, too.
We'd have to say it over maybe a hundred times a day. And if he grew up
and amounted to anything, as we was sure he would, it would mean that
this front name of his that I had to pick out might be displayed more or
less prominent. It would be on his office door, on his letterheads, on
his cards. He'd sign it to checks.

Maybe it would be printed in the newspapers, used in headlines, or
painted on campaign banners. Might be displayed on billboards. Who could
tell?

And the deeper I got into the thing the more I wabbled about from one
name to another, until I wondered how people had the nerve to give their
children some of the tags you hear--Percy, Isadore, Lulu, Reginald, and
so on. And do it so casual, too. Why, I knew of a couple who named their
three girls after parlor-cars; and a gink in Brooklyn who called one of
his boys Prospect, after the park. Think of loadin' a helpless youngster
with anything freaky like that!

Besides, how were you going to know that even the best name you could
pick wouldn't turn out to be a misfit? About the only Percy I ever knew
in real life was a great two-fisted husk who was foreman of a
stereotypin' room; and here in the Corrugated Buildin', if you'll come
in some night after five, I can show you a wide built scrub lady, with
hair redder'n mine and a voice like a huckster--her front name is
Violet. Yet I expect, when them two was babies, both those names sounded
kind of cute. I could see where it would be easy enough for me to make
a mistake that it would take a court order to straighten out.

So, when Vee asks if I've made any choice yet I had to admit that I'm
worse muddled up on the subject than when I started in. All I can do is
hand over a list I've copied down on the back of an envelop with every
one of 'em checked off as no good.

"Let's see," says Vee, glancin' 'em over curious. "Lester. Why, I'm sure
that is rather a nice name for a boy."

"Yes," says I; "but a