I present this as Jack Holden's view, not mine. He had the prejudices of the frontier, and frontiersmen are severe judges of their Indian neighbors. They usually look at but one side of the picture, and are not apt to take into consideration the wrongs which the Indians have undeniably received. There is another extreme, however, and the sentimentalists who deplore Indian wrongs, and represent them as a brave, suffering and oppressed people, are quite as far away from a just view of the Indian question. “What's your name, youngster?” asked Holden, with the curiosity natural under the circumstances. “Herbert Carr.” “Do you live nigh here?” Herbert indicated, as well as he could, the location of his home. “I know--you live with Mr. Falkland. Are you his son?” “No; Mr. Falkland has gone away.” “You're not living there alone, be you?” “No; I came out here with a young man--Mr. Melville. He bought the cottage of Mr. Falkland, who was obliged to go East.” “You don't say so. Why, we're neighbors. I live three miles from here.” “Did you know Mr. Falkland?” “Yes; we used to see each other now and then. He was a good fellow, but mighty queer. What's the use of settin' down and paintin' pictures? What's the good of it all?” “Don't you admire pictures, Mr. Holden?” asked Herbert. “That's that you called me? I didn't quite catch on to it.” “Mr. Holden. Isn't that your name?” “Don't call me mister. I'm plain Jack Holden. Call me Jack.” “I will if you prefer it,” said Herbert, dubiously. “Of course I do. We don't go much on style in the woods. Won't you come home with me, and take a look at my cabin? I ain't used to company, but we can sit down and have a social smoke together, and then I'll manage to find something to eat.” “Thank you, Mr. Holden--I mean, Jack--but I must be getting home; Mr. Melville will be feeling anxious, for, as it is, I shall be late.” “Is Mr. Melville, as you call him, any way kin to you?” “No; he is my friend and employer.” “Young man?” “Yes; he is about twenty-five.” “How long have you two been out here?” “Not much over a week.” “Why isn't Melville with you this morning?” “He is in delicate health--consumption--and he gets tired sooner than I do.” “I must come over and see you, I reckon.” “I hope you will. We get lonely sometimes. If you would like to borrow something to read, Mr. Melville has plenty of books.” “Read!” repeated Jack. “No, thank you. I don't care much for books. A newspaper, now, is different. A man likes to know what's going on in the world; but I leave books to ministers, schoolmasters, and the like.” “If you don't read, how do you fill up your time, Jack?” “My pipe's better than any book, lad. I'm goin' to set down and have a smoke now. Wish I had an extra pipe for you.” “Thank you,” said Herbert, politely, “but I don't smoke.” “Don't smoke! How old are you?” “Sixteen.” “Sixteen years old, and don't smoke! Why, where was you raised?” “In the East,” answered Herbert, smiling.