Part 1 (1/2)

Wild Life in the Land of the Giants.

by Gordon Stables.

CHAPTER ONE.

BOOK I--OUR HOME BY THE SEA.

THE OLD HOME BY THE SEA--AUNT SERAPHEEMA.

Reginald Augustus John Fitzmaurice Jones!

That is my name in full.

There is not the slightest occasion to remember it.

The name is far and away too long, and too tall for ordinary use. Twice only have I taken it to church with me, namely, on the day of my baptism, and on my wedding morn. On both these occasions it was written on a bit of paper, and folded up for future use.

On the first occasion it was carefully carried in my father's waistcoat pocket, and _I_ brought it home.

On the second occasion it was carefully carried in my own waistcoat pocket, and brought home by one far dearer to me than even a father.

But as regards a name or names rather, my brother did not fare a bit better than I did.

Rupert Domville Ffoljambe-Foley Jillard Jones!

That is my brother's name in full. And, indeed, I think it will be readily admitted that his was a harder case than even mine, and seeing that I was the elder, this seemed scarcely fair.

Reginald Augustus John Fitzmaurice Jones! Only fancy a spirited young man having to make his way in life, and drag through existence with such a name as that tagged on to him. For _one_ young man even it would be bad enough, but there were two of us, and we always drove in couple.

What a deal maiden aunts have to account for, as often as not! Yes, it was all owing to Aunt Serapheema, and even to this day I cannot help thinking she owes us a very ample apology.

Here is how it occurred:

Father--he was Captain Jones then--was sitting all alone one evening in the room which was designated by courtesy the study, though, as far as literature is concerned, it contained little else save a few magazines, the newspapers, and--father's pipe rack. Well, father was enjoying a mild cigar by the open window--for it was spring, and the birds were singing in every bush--when there entered to him--Aunt Serapheema, who began to cough.

Father put his cigar hastily down on the outside sill of the window, with a little sigh, for it was one of the Colonel's--Colonel McReady's-- best, and only newly lit.

He hastened to place the high-backed armchair for the lady. It was like herself, this chair--straight, tall, dark, and prim.

”The smoke, I suppose, _would_ have annoyed you?”

”It would have, Harold.”

”And the open window?”

”That we can do with.”

”Ahem!” continued my aunt, smoothing the long black silken mits she always wore on her hands and arms. ”Ahem!”

”Yes, sister,” said my father.