Who says it is mean to love the land, to
keep in our hearts these graves, as we keep the Great Spirit? It is
noble to love the land, where the corn grows, and which was given to
us by the Great Spirit. We will sell no more; we know we are passing
away; the leaves fall from the trees, and we fall like these; some
will stay to be the last. The snow melts from the hills, but there is
some left for the last; we are left for the last, like the withered
leaf and little spot of snow. Leave to us the little we have, let us
die where our fathers have died, and let us sleep where our kindred
sleep; and when the last is gone, then take our lands, and with your
plough tear up the mould upon our graves, and plant your corn above
us. There will be none to weep at the deed, none to tell the
traditions of our people, or sing the death-song above their
graves--none to listen to the wrongs and oppressions the red man bore
from his white brother, who came from the home the Great Spirit gave
him, to take from the red man the home the Great Spirit gave him. We
are few and weak, you are many and strong, and you can kill us and
take our homes; but the Great Spirit has given us courage to fight for
our homes, if we may not live in them--and we will do it--and this is
our talk, our last talk.
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