"No?" I questioned.

"No," he replied. "For, one time, there was no land here at all;
everywhere there was just water."

"I can quite believe it," I remarked caustically.

He laughed--that irresistible, though silent, David Warfield laugh
of his that always brought a responsive smile from his listeners.
Then he plunged directly into the tradition, with no preface save a
comprehensive sweep of his wonderful hands towards my wide window,
against which the rains were beating.

"It was after a long, long time of this--this rain. The mountain
streams were swollen, the rivers choked, the sea began to rise--and
yet it rained; for weeks and weeks it rained." He ceased speaking,
while the shadows of centuries gone crept into his eyes. Tales of
the misty past always inspired him.

"Yes," he continued. "It rained for weeks and weeks, while the
mountain torrents roared thunderingly down, and the sea crept
silently up. The level lands were first to float in sea-water, then
to disappear. The slopes were next to slip into the sea. The world
was slowly being flooded. Hurriedly the Indian tribes gathered in
one spot, a place of safety far above the reach of the on-creeping
sea. The spot was the circling shore of Lake Beautiful, up the
North Arm. They held a Great Council and decided at once upon a
plan of action. A giant canoe should be built, and some means
contrived to anchor it in case the waters mounted to the heights.
The men undertook the canoe, the women the anchorage.