We cannot boast of many fine evenings in old England--dear old England
for all that!--and when they do come they are truly lovely and worthy of
being prized the more. It was on one of the finest of a fine summer
that Mr Frampton, the owner of a beautiful estate in Devonshire, was
seated on a rustic bench in his garden, his son Harry, who stood at his
knee, looking up inquiringly into his face.
"Father," said Harry, "I have often heard you speak about the North
American Indians--the Red men of the deserts. Do tell me how it is that
you know so much about them--have you ever been in their country?"
"Yes, my boy; I passed several of the earlier years of my life in that
part of North America which may truly be said to belong as yet to the
Red men, though as there are but some fifty thousand scattered over the
whole central portion of it, it must be acknowledged that they do not
make the best possible use of the territory they inhabit. A glance at
the map of North America will show you where the Red River is, with its
settlement founded by Lord Selkirk. I was very young when I went there
with my father, my elder brother Malcolm, and John Dawes, a faithful
servant who had been brought up in the family from childhood. John was
a great sportsman, a most kind-hearted fellow, and could turn his hand
to anything. We went through Canada to Lake Superior, and from thence
it took us, by a chain of lakes and rivers, about twenty-five days to
reach the banks of the Red River. I need not describe how we selected
our ground, built a cottage, ploughed a field, and stocked our farm; we
will suppose all these preliminaries over and our party permanently
settled in our new home. I must tell you before I proceed a little
about the Indians of this region."