Babb proved as short of population as of syllables. We went the length of the town, and encountered only one building,--the postoffice and store. That its populace was treated more generously in the matter of syllables we discovered by idly reading the mailing list of Blackfeet citizens, pasted on the wall. Among Babb’s most prominent residents are Killfirst Stingy, Mary Earrings, Susie Swimsunder, Ada Calflooking, Cecile Weaselwoman, Xavier Billetdoux, Joe Scabbyrobe, Alex Biglodgepole and Josephine Underotter Owlchild. I have been told that many Indian tribes name a child from the greatest event in the life of its oldest living relative. When the child reaches maturity, he earns a name for himself by some characteristic achievement, goaded to it, no doubt, by the horrors of his given name. Thus by a glance at the census lists we are able to read past history, and compare the amorous agitations of Xavier Billetdoux’ granddaddy with the bucolic and serene existence of Ada Calflooking’s great-aunt. Not a bad way of checking up one’s ancestry against one’s own worth. If we followed the same system, Cornelius Rowed Washington across the Delaware might be rechristened C. Shimmyfoot, while Adolph Foreclosedthewidow’smortgage might earn the nobler surname of Endowsahospital. It is really a remarkable system of shorthand autobiography, enabling a complete stranger to tell whether one belongs to a good family going downhill, or a poor one coming uphill, or a mediocre at a standstill. How many a near Theda Bara who would like to be named Cecile Weaselwoman would have to be content as Mary Ear-rings. How many a purse-proud Biglodgepole would have to confess his grandfather was named Scabbyrobe. Perhaps this is the reason we leave such nomenclature to the heathen Indian. Reflecting thus, Toby and I amused ourselves with renaming ourselves and our friends, until we reached a place where some altruistic citizen had inundated the road in order to irrigate his patch of land. Here we were supposed to take to the top of the canal, but the bank was high, narrow and shaly. It looked too much like a conspiracy against both us and the canal, so we disregarded our advice and skirted the open land. By leaving the road altogether and keeping to the hills we avoided most of the bog, and got through the rest with a little maneuvering. A mile further we learned that the canal bank had given way under a car the previous day, and carried car and occupants into the water. The beautiful Flathead Mountains had faded away behind us, leaving a prairie country of no charm, dry and burnt. At the border, as at Mexico, we found our little customhouse less formal and more shabby than our neighbor’s, but at both we received clearance and courteous treatment. When we said we came from Massachusetts, the Canadian agent sighed.