I considered it my duty to make myself acquainted with the local names.

What was the brook called?
It was called "The Cockshoot"! And the great hill, here, on my right?
It was called "The Overblow"! Five minutes more, and we saw our first house--lonely and little--built of mortar and flint from the hills.
A name to this also?
Certainly.

Name of "Browndown." Another ten minutes of walking, involving us more and more deeply in the mysterious green windings of the valley--and the great event of the day happened at last.
Finch's boy pointed before him with his whip, and said (even at this supreme moment, still in three monosyllabic words):-- "Here we be!" So this is Dimchurch! I shake out the chalk-dust from the skirts of my dress.

I long (quite vainly) for the least bit of looking-glass to see myself in.

Here is the population (to the number of at least five or six), gathered together, informed by the scouts--and it is my woman's business to produce the best impression of myself that I can.