Peggy Stewart, Navy Girl at Home

“Peggy, Maggie, Mag, Margaret, Marguerite, Muggins. Hum! Half a dozen of them. Wonder if there are any more? Yes, there’s Peggoty and Peg, to say nothing of Margaretta, Gretchen, Meta, Margarita, Keta, and Madge. My goodness! Is there any end to my nicknames? I mistrust I’m a very commonplace mortal. I wonder if other girls’ names can be twisted around into as many picture puzzles as mine can. What do YOU think about it, Shashai!” [Footnote: Shashai. Hebrew for noble, pronounced Shash’a-ai.] and the girl reached up both arms to draw down into their embrace the silky head of a superb young colt that stood close beside her; a creature which would have made any horse-lover stop stock-still and exclaim at the sight of him. He was a magnificent two-year-old Kentuckian, faultless as to his points, with a head to set an artist rhapsodizing and a-tingle to put it upon his canvas. His coat, mane, and tail were black as midnight and glossy as satin. The great, lustrous eyes held a living fire, the delicate nostrils were a-quiver every moment, the faultlessly curved ears alert as a wild creature’s. And he WAS half wild, for never had saddle rested upon his back, girth encircled him or bit fretted the sensitive mouth. A halter thus far in his career had been his only badge of bondage and the girl caressing him had been the one to put it upon him. It would have been a bad quarter of an hour for any other person attempting it. But she was his “familiar,” though far from being his evil genius. On the contrary, she was his presiding spirit of good.

Just now, as the splendid head nestled confidingly in her circling arms, she was whispering into one velvety ear, oh, so velvety! as it rested against her ripe, red lips, so soft, so perfect in their molding. The ear moved slightly back and forth, speaking its silent language. The nostrils emitted the faintest bubbling acknowledgment of the whispered words. The beautiful eyes were so expressive in their intelligent comprehension.

“Too many cooks spoil the broth, Shashai. Too many grooms can spoil a colt. Too many mistresses turn a household topsy-turvy. How about too many names, old boy? Can they spoil a girl? But maybe I’m spoiled already. How about it?” and a musical laugh floated out from between the pretty lips.