Walter Savage Landor once wrote:  “I hate false words, and seek with care, difficulty, and moroseness those that fit the thing.”  So did Sentimental Tommy, as related by James M. Barrie in his novel bearing his hero’s name as a title.  No wonder T. Sandys became an author and a lion!

Tommy, with another lad, is writing an essay on “A Day in Church,” in competition for a university scholarship.  He gets on finely until he pauses for lack of a word.  For nearly an hour he searches for this elusive thing, until suddenly he is told that the allotted time is up, and he has lost!  Barrie may tell the rest: 

Essay!  It was no more an essay than a twig is a tree, for the gowk had stuck in the middle of his second page.  Yes, stuck is the right expression, as his chagrined teacher had to admit when the boy was cross-examined.  He had not been “up to some of his tricks;” he had stuck, and his explanations, as you will admit, merely emphasized his incapacity.

He had brought himself to public scorn for lack of a word.  What word? they asked testily; but even now he could not tell.  He had wanted a Scotch word that would signify how many people were in church, and it was on the tip of his tongue, but would come no farther.  Puckle was nearly the word, but it did not mean so many people as he meant.  The hour had gone by just like winking; he had forgotten all about time while searching his mind for the word.

* * * * *

The other five [examiners] were furious....  “You little tattie doolie,” Cathro roared, “were there not a dozen words to wile from if you had an ill-will to puckle?  What ailed you at manzy, or—­”

“I thought of manzy,” replied Tommy, woefully, for he was ashamed of himself, “but—­but a manzy’s a swarm.  It would mean that the folk in the kirk were buzzing thegither like bees, instead of sitting still.”

“Even if it does mean that,” said Mr. Duthie, with impatience, “what was the need of being so particular?  Surely the art of essay-writing consists in using the first word that comes and hurrying on.”

    “That’s how I did,” said the proud McLauchlan [Tommy’s
    successful competitor]....

    “I see,” interposed Mr. Gloag, “that McLauchlan speaks of there
    being a mask of people in the church.  Mask is a fine Scotch
    word.”

    “I thought of mask,” whimpered Tommy, “but that would mean the
    kirk was crammed, and I just meant it to be middling full.”

    “Flow would have done,” suggested Mr. Lonimer.

    “Flow’s but a handful,” said Tommy.

    “Curran, then, you jackanapes!”

    “Curran’s no enough.”

    Mr. Lorrimer flung up his hands in despair.

    “I wanted something between curran and mask,” said Tommy,
    doggedly, yet almost at the crying.