Whats Mines Mine | Page 5

him Peregrine:--"except indeed it be a family name!" he added.
"I never thought about it," said Peregrine. "I don't quite know what you
mean."
The fact was he had no glimmer of what he meant.
"Nothing profound," returned the other. "Only don't you see Peregrine
means pilgrim? It is the same as the Italian pellegrino, from the Latin,
peregrinus, which means one that goes about the fields,--what in
Scotland you call a LANDLOUPER."
"Well, but," returned Peregrine, hesitatingly, "I don't find myself much
wiser. Peregrine means a pilgrim, you say, but what of that? All names
mean something, I suppose! It don't matter much."
"What is your coat of arms?"
"I don't know."
"Why did your father call you Peregrine?"
"I don't know that either. I suppose because he liked the name."
"Why should he have liked it?" continued the other, who was given to

the Socratic method.
"I know no more than the man in the moon."
"What does your surname mean?"
"Something to do with palms, I suppose."
"Doubtless."
"You see I don't go in for that kind of thing like you!"
"Any man who cares about the cut of his coat, might have a little
curiosity about the cut of his name: it sits to him a good deal closer!"
"That is true--so close that you can't do anything with it. I can't pull
mine off however you criticize it!"
"You can change it any day. Would you like to change it?"
"No, thank you, Mr. Stokes!" returned Peregrine dryly.
"I didn't mean with mine," growled the other. "My name is an historical
one too--but that is not in question.--Do you know your crest ought to
be a hairy worm?"
"Why?"
"Don't you know the palmer-worm? It got its name where you got
yours!"
"Well, we all come from Adam!"
"What! worms and all?"
"Surely. We're all worms, the parson says. Come, put me through; it's
time for lunch. Or, if you prefer, let me burst in ignorance. I don't
mind."

"Well, then, I will explain. The palmer was a pilgrim: when he came
home, he carried a palm-branch to show he had been to the holy land."
"Did the hairy worm go to the holy land too?"
"He is called a palmer-worm because he has feet enough to go any
number of pilgrimages. But you are such a land-louper, you ought to
blazon two hairy worms saltier-wise."
"I don't understand."
"Why, your name, interpreted to half an ear, is just PILGRIM
PILGRIM!"
"I wonder if my father meant it!"
"That I cannot even guess at, not having the pleasure of knowing your
father. But it does look like a paternal joke!"
His friend sought out for him the coat and crest of the Palmers; but for
the latter, strongly recommended a departure: the fresh family-branch
would suit the worm so well!--his crest ought to be two worms crossed,
tufted, the tufts ouched in gold. It was not heraldic language, but with
Peregrine passed well enough. Still he did not take to the worms, but
contented himself with the ordinary crest. He was henceforth, however,
better pleased with his name, for he fancied in it something of the
dignity of a doubled surname.
His first glance at his wife was because she crossed the field of his
vision; his second glance was because of her beauty; his third because
her name was SHELLEY. It is marvellous how whimsically
sentimental commonplace people can be where their own interesting
personality is concerned: her name he instantly associated with
SCALLOP-SHELL, and began to make inquiry about her. Learning
that her other name was Miriam, one also of the holy land--
"A most remarkable coincidence!--a mere coincidence of course!" he
said to himself. "Evidently that is the woman destined to be the

companion of my pilgrimage!"
When their first child was born, the father was greatly exercised as to a
fitting name for him. He turned up an old botany book, and sought out
the scientific names of different palms. CHAMAEROPS would not do,
for it was a dwarf-palm; BORASSUS might do, seeing it was a
boy--only it stood for a FAN-PALM; CORYPHA would not be bad for
a girl, only it was the name of a heathen goddess, and would not go
well with the idea of a holy palmer. COCOA, PHOENIX, and ARECA,
one after the other, went in at his eyes and through his head; none of
them pleased him. His wife, however, who in her smiling way had
fallen in with his whim, helped him out of his difficulty. She was the
daughter of nonconformist parents in Lancashire, and had been
encouraged when a child to read a certain old-fashioned book called
The Pilgrim's Progress, which her husband had never seen. He did not
read it now, but accepting her