It will be seen that the following Poem is not a work of _fiction_. It aims to relate—with some license of imagination, of course, else it would not be poetry—a plain historical fact. The description of Paul’s skill and knowledge as a hunter, and in managing their frail little water-crafts in a sea, is literally true of many of the Indians, and was true of him. His peace of mind in committing his family into the hands of God, after he found himself disabled, having burst a blood-vessel by carrying a large load, from which he never recovered—he related to me: and this is expressed in the prayer put into his mouth at the close, “which we did not fully _hear_ or _share_.” It may be added that after the Poem was written, I read it to the Indian who gave me the account of John Paul’s death, and as he spoke the English language well, he had no trouble in understanding it. And he assured me that it described the scene correctly. I may add that the _measure_—or rather the utter disregard of all regular measure—was suggested by an old poem I saw somewhere, describing a very different scene, and the “wildness” of it appeared, to me to be just suited to a scene of the _Wilderness_ and the _wigwam_. It will not surely be deemed a very great stretch of “poetic license” to represent oneself as an eye and ear-witness of a scene, with the surroundings of which he was so familiar, and which had been so vividly described by those who really were present. Nor need we speculate about the cause of dreams or their significance. No one will deny that that may be a very exact index of the state of mind at the time, of the one who dreams. And the earnest prayer of the writer is, that the reader of these verses, and himself, may be, at the time of our departure, so full of joy and peace in believing, that whether waking or dreaming, we may rejoice with that joy which is unspeakable and full of glory, receiving the end of our faith, even the salvation of our souls.” SILAS T. RAND. Hantsport, N. S. [Illustration] THE DYING INDIAN’S DREAM. “Jesus, the vision of thy face, Hath overpowering charms; Scarce shall I feel Death’s cold embrace, If Christ be in my arms. Then when you hear my heartstrings break, How sweet my minutes roll; A mortal paleness on my cheek, And glory in my soul.”—_Watts._ I.