These titles (which vexed my dear mother from the first) had suggested themselves to us on this wise.  There was a certain little gentleman who came to our church, a brewer by profession, and a major in the militia by choice, who was so small and strutted so much that to the insolent observation of boyhood he was “exactly like” our new bantam cock.  Young people are very apt to overhear what is not intended for their knowledge, and somehow or other we learned that he was “courting” (as his third wife) a lady of our parish.  His former wives are buried in our churchyard.  Over the first he had raised an obelisk of marble, so costly and affectionate that it had won the hearts of his neighbours in general, and of his second wife in particular.  When she died the gossips wondered whether the Major would add her name to that of her predecessor, or “go to the expense” of a new monument.  He erected a second obelisk, and it was taller than the first (height had a curious fascination for him), and the inscription was more touching than the other.  This time the material was Aberdeen granite, and as that is most difficult to cut, hard to polish, and heavy to transport, the expense was enormous.  These two monstrosities of mortuary pomp were the pride of the parish, and they were familiarly known to us children (and to many other people) as “the Major’s wives.”

When we called the cock “the Major,” we naturally called the hens “the Major’s wives.”

“My dears, I don’t like that name at all,” said my mother.  “I never like jokes about people who are dead.  And for that matter, it really sounds as if they were both alive, which is worse.”

It was during our naughty period, and I strutted on my heels till I must have looked very like the little brewer himself, and said, “And why shouldn’t they both be alive?  Fancy the Major with two wives, one on each arm, and both as tall as the monuments!  What fun!”

As I said the words “one on each arm,” I put up first one and then the other of my own, and having got a satisfactory impetus during the rest of my sentence, I crossed the parlour as a catherine-wheel under my mother’s nose.  It was a new accomplishment, of which I was very proud, and poor Jem somewhat envious.  He was clumsy and could not manage it.

“Oh!” ejaculated my mother, “Jack, I must speak to your father about those dangerous tricks of yours.  And it quite shocks me to hear you talk in that light way about wicked things.”

Jem was to my rescue in a moment, driving his hands into the pockets of his blouse, and turning them up to see how soon he might hope that his fingers would burst through the lining.

“Jacob had two wives,” he said; and he chanted on, quoting imperfectly from Dr. Watts’s Scripture Catechism, “And Jacob was a good man, therefore his brother hated him.”

“No, no, Jem,” said I, “that was Abel.  Jacob was Isaac’s younger son, and——­”