“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.
Presently my father's face softened somewhat, and he said:
“Go and try. But mind, curb folly. No poetry at the expense of truth. Keep strictly to the facts.”
I said I would, and bowed myself out, and went upstairs.
“Hiawatha” kept droning in my head—and so did my father's remarks about the sublimity and romance hidden in my subject, and also his injunction to beware of wasteful and exuberant fancy. I noticed, just here, that I had
