Within the Baker home three persons, a woman and two men, were sitting beside a well-discussed table in the perfect content that follows a good meal. Strange to say, in this frontier land, the men had cigars, and their smoke curled slowly toward the ceiling. Intermittently, with the unconscious attitude of indifference we bestow upon happenings remote from our lives, they were discussing the month-old news of the world, which the messenger from town, who supplied at stated intervals the family wants, had brought the day before. Out of doors, in the warm sunny plat south of the barn, a small boy and a still smaller girl were engaged in the fascinating occupation of becoming acquainted. The little girl was decidedly taking the initiative. "How's it come your name is Blair?" she asked, opening fire as soon as they were alone. The boy pondered the question. It had never occurred to him before. Why should he be called Blair? No adequate reason suggested itself. "I don't know," he admitted. The little girl wrinkled her forehead in thought. "It's funny, isn't it?" she said. "Now, my papa's name is Baker, and my name's Florence Baker. You ought to be Ben Rankin--but you aren't." She stroked a diminutive nose with a fairy forefinger. "It's funny," she repeated. "Oh!" commented Benjamin. He understood now, but explanations were not a part of his philosophy. "Oh!" and the subject dropped. "Let's play duck on the rock," suggested Florence. The boy's hands were deep in the recesses of his pockets. "I don't know how." "That's nothing." The small brunette had the air of one to whom difficulties were unknown. "I'll show you. Papa and I play, and it's lots of fun--only he beats me." She looked about for available material. "You get that little box up by the house," she directed, "and we'll have that for the rock." Ben did as ordered. "Now bring two tin cans. You'll find a pile back of the barn." Once more the boy departed, to return a moment later with a pair of "selects," each bearing in gaudy illumination a composite picture of the ingredients of succotash. "Now watch me," said Florence. She carried the box about a rod away and planted it firmly on the ground. "This is the rock," she explained. On the top of the box she perched one of the cans, open end up. "And this is the duck--my duck. Do you see?" The boy had watched the proceedings carefully. "Yes, I see," he said. Florence came back to the barn. "Now the game is for you to take this other can and knock my duck off. Then we both run, and if you get your can on the box ahead of me, I'm _it_, and I'll have to knock off your duck. Are you ready?" "Yes." "All right." And the sport was on. Ben poised his missile and carefully let fly. "He, he!" tittered Florence. "You missed!" He retrieved his duck without comment. "Try again; you've got three chances." More carefully than before Ben took aim and tossed his can.