"Calcutta," prompted Mary.

"Yes, I mind now--Calcutty. Well, from there Brother Matthias went up
into the country called--I can't just mind the exact name--oh, here it
is--B-a-l-l-e-r-r-a-d Ballerrad--e-r-a-d--Ballerraderad."

Luther paused and sighed. "Them names--them names!" he exclaimed. "If
there is one thing that convinces me that the story of the Tower of
Babel is true, it is the names of the towns in Injy."

It seemed to me that perhaps from the viewpoint of the East Indian, the
same thing might be said of our "villes" and "burgs," and I was about
to raise my voice in behalf of the maligned heathen, when my host
resumed his discourse.

"When you come in, I was readin' about a poor missionary woman in
Baller--Baller--Ballerraderad--whose Sunday-school had been largely eat
up by taggers. Her name was Flora Martin, Brother Matthias says, and
she was one of the saintliest women he ever seen. He tells how the
month before he come to Baller--Baller--Baller-daddad--an extry large
tagger had been sneakin' around the mission-house, a-watchin' for
scholars, and how one day, when, according to Brother Matthias, this
here Flora Martin, armed only with a rifle and girded about with the
heavenly sperrit--how this here Flora----"

There was a ponderous knock on the door, and then the knob began to
rattle violently. The bolt had been shot, so Luther had to rise in
haste to admit the new-comer, leaving Flora Martin with nothing but the
rifle and the heavenly spirit.