There is no quiet place in the white man's cities, no place to hear the leaves of spring or the rustle of insects' wings. Perhaps it is because I am a savage and do not understand, but the chatter only seems to insult the ears.

     The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of the pond, the smell of the wind itself cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with pifion pine. The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath - the animals, the trees, the man.

     Like a man who has been dying for many days, a man in your city is numb to the stench.

 

 

 

     The Great Spirit has given the white man great fore-sightedness; he sees everything at a distance, and his mind invents and makes the most extraordinary things.But the red man has been made shortsiggted. He sees only what is close around him and knows nothing except what his father knew ...

 

 

 

     The attempted transformation of the Indian by the white man and the chaos that resulted are but the fruits of the white man's disobedience og a fundamental and spiritual law.

     "Civilization" has been thrust upon me since the days of the reserations, and it has not added one whit to my sense of justice, to my reverence for the rights of life, to my love for truth, honesty, and generosity, or to my faith in Wakan Tanka, God of the Lakotas.

     For after all the great religions have been preached and expounded, or have been revealed by brilliant scholars, or have been written in fine books and embellished in fine language with finer covers, man - all man - is still confronted with the Great Mystery.

 

 

 

     White man's pictures all fade, but the Indian's memories last forever.