Milk was brought to us daily from the above-mentioned cottage by a little toddler who seemed just able to carry the small tin bucket which held a lacteal pint.

If the urchin had been the child of rich parents, as Euphemia sometimes observed, he would have been in his nurse's arms--but being poor, he was scarcely weaned before he began to carry milk around to other people.
After I reached home came supper and the delightful evening hours, when over my pipe (I had given up cigars, as being too expensive and inappropriate, and had taken to a tall pipe and canaster tobacco) we talked and planned, and told each other our day's experience.
One of our earliest subjects of discussion was the name of our homestead.

Euphemia insisted that it should have a name.

I was quite willing, but we found it no easy matter to select an appropriate title.
I proposed a number of appellations intended to suggest the character of our home.

Among these were: "Safe Ashore," "Firmly Grounded," and some other names of that style, but Euphemia did not fancy any of them.