And your birch canoe for sailing,
And the oil of Mishe-Nama."

Presently my father took out of his breast pocket an imposing "Warranty
Deed," and fixed his eyes upon it and dropped into meditation. I knew
what it was. A Texan lady and gentleman had given my half-brother, Orrin
Johnson, a handsome property in a town in the North, in gratitude to him
for having saved their lives by an act of brilliant heroism.

By and by my father looked towards me and sighed. Then he said:

"If I had such a son as this poet, here were a subject worthier than the
traditions of these Indians."

"If you please, sir, where?"

"In this deed."

"Yes--in this very deed," said my father, throwing it on the table.
"There is more poetry, more romance, more sublimity, more splendid
imagery hidden away in that homely document than could be found in all
the traditions of all the savages that live."

"Indeed, sir? Could I--could I get it out, sir? Could I compose the
poem, sir, do you think?"

"You?"

I wilted.