How do you like “Gretchen?” Not the person, but the name. I don’t like it myself at all. How I came to adopt it, I do not remember. It must have been some wretched schoolgirlish German sentiment which I have outgrown.
I hate it now because it is so un-Scotch, and the older I grow, the more Scotch do I become in mind and blood and the name is a glaring discord in a Scotch paper, so I think of changing it to something more appropriate.
(No idea what caused this post, but she obviously didn’t change her nom de plume. She did much later in 1916 in the middle of the first world war)
Where was my artistic sense when I did not sign myself “Mysie” or “Jen?” I am going to make a choice from among my own names which vary with the degree of respect(!) and affection in which I am held. Here they are — Margaret, Maggie, Mag, Daisy, Peggie, Peg.
Now I have fixed upon Peggie, for the reason which concerns myself — that it was the name of my mother and grandmother and great grandmother. It adorns family tombstones farther back than that, but the chief reason which concerns the paper and its readers — is that it is unmistakably Scotch.
Be it known, therefore, that for some weeks to come I shall sign myself “Peggie, alias Gretchen, to prepare you, before I finally merge my identity to simple “Peggie.” There is a power, however, known as the editor, who controls my vagaries, and he may write to remonstrate at the change.
He it is who lays before me that I do not tell you often enough how to wash and dress your bairns; and it is a standing grievance with him that I have not a whole-hearted enthusiasm for “the fashions.” You have no idea how difficult he is to please. (That’s a “whopper,” Miss!).