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?"…
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