First I thought I'd call him Caesar; but my Uncle Ebenezer said that
name was badly hoodoed--wasn't Julius Caesar slain? Then I said, "I'll
call him Homer"; but my second cousin Gomer answered; "Homer was a
pauper, and he wrote his rhymes in vain." Long I pondered, worried
greatly seeking names both sweet and stately, something proud and high
and noble, such as ancient heroes bore. "I shall call him Alexander--"
but an innocent bystander muttered, "Aleck was a tyrant, and he
splashed around in gore." And my aunts said: "Only trust us, and we'll
name him Charles Augustus, which is princely and becoming, and will end
this foolish fuss." But my Cousin James objected: "Nothing else can be
expected, if you give him such a handle, but that folks will call him
Gus." "Let us call the darling Reggie," said my cheerful sister Peggy,
"which is short for Rex or Roland or some other kingly name." But my
Uncle George protested. "Surely," said he, "you but jested: never yet
did youth named Reggie scale the shining height of fame." Thus it was
for weeks together, and I often wondered whether other parents ever
suffered as I did upon the rack. All my uncles and my cousins and my
aunts gave tips by dozens, so I named the babe John Henry, and for
short we call him Jack.