“We was talkin’ about names, Mr. Bangs,” explained Primmie.  “He’s always makin’ fun of my name.  I told him my name was pretty enough to get put into poetry sometimes.  You know—­”

“I told her,” broke in Zach, solemnly, but with a wink at Galusha, “that the only thing I could think of to rhyme with ‘Primrose’ was ‘Jim Crows.’”

“I never said it rhymed,” protested Miss Cash, hotly.  “You can have your name in poetry without its rhymin’, I guess likely.  You’re always tellin’ me about how ‘Zacheus he, climbed up a tree—­’ Now if your name had to rhyme ’twould have to be—­er—­er—­well, nothing’,” triumphantly; “‘cause nothin’ could rhyme with Zacheus.”

Mr. Bloomer, solemn as ever, shook his head.

“Yes, it could,” he declared.  “What’s the name of that plant Lulie’s got in the settin’ room window over home?  The one with the prickers on it.  Cat-tailed—­no, rat-tailed—­um—­”

“Cactus.”  Galusha supplied the word.

“That’s it,” said Zach.  “That would do it.

     ’Old man Zach’us
      Shinned up a cactus—­’

Have to step lively, wouldn’t he?” he added, with a chuckle.

Primmie sniffed.  “Silly!” she retorted.  “What was that pretty piece of poetry you told me the other day that had my name in it, Mr. Bangs?  The one about it bein’ so and so and not much else?  You know the one.”

Galusha obliged.

“’A primrose by the river’s brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.’”

“There!” said Primmie, triumphantly.  “Do you hear that, Zach Bloomer?  That’s poetry, the real kind.  And it’s got my name in it, too.”

Zach shook his head.

“You ain’t a yellow primrose, Posy,” he said.  “You’re a red one-red and speckled.  Mr. Bangs,” he added, before the outraged Primmie could reply, “I think consider’ble about names, havin’ such a out-of-common sort of a one myself.  I never heard your name afore. . . .  Galusha. . . .  Godfreys!  Was you named for somebody in the family?”

“Yes.”

“I see.  Yes, yes.  Most generally names like that, the tough ones, come out of the Bible in the fust place.  Is your name in Scriptur’ anywheres?”

“I don’t know.  I—­ah—­presume I should, but I don’t.”

“Um-hm.  Queer names in the Bible. . . .  Um-hm.  And some good ones, too. . . .  I’ve always been a good deal interested in names.  Used to set around hours at a stretch, when I was aboard the old lightship, and try to pick out what name in Scriptur’ I cal’lated I’d ruther be called.  Finally I got down to two—­John and Paul.  Both of ’em short and sensible, no frills to ’em.  Of the two I figgered maybe Paul would fit me best.  Paul, he was shipwrecked one time, you remember, and I’ve been wrecked no less’n three. . . .  Paul. . . .  Um-hm. . . .  Say, Mr. Bangs, have you ever tried to fit yourself with a Bible name?”