Yonder sky that has swept tears of evensorrow upon my folk for tides untold, and which to us looks wendless and everlasting, may end. Today is fair, tomorrow it may be overcast... My words are like the stars that never frother: whatever Seattle says, the great reve at Washington can dow upon as much as he can upon the edrising of the seles and sun. White Reve says that Big Reve in Washington sends us greetings of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him for we know that he has little need of our friendship. His lede are many - they are like the reeds and grass that hele the land. Mine are few - they look like the scattering trees of a storm-swept meadow. the great - and I believe - good, White Reve sends us word that he wishes to buy our land but he wishes to give us enough to live froveringly, which indeed, seems fair, rather givle, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need onlook, and the ettle may be wise, also, as we are no longer in need of a swathful land.
There was a time when our folk heled the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea tild its shell-decked floor, but that time long since rode away with the greatness of ilks that are now but a nornful edcalling. I will not dwell on, nor norn over our untimely forewarning, nor lean my white-nebbed brothers with hastening it, as we too may have been somewhat to chide.
Youth is driven. When our young men grow wrath for any onlet, and swarthen their nebbs, it shows that their hearts are hattle, and that they are often reethe and dogged, which our old men and women swether to tether. Thus it has ever been. Thus it was when the white man began to push our forefathers ever westward. But let us hope that these hildhoods between us may never come back. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Yieldback by young men is deemed as gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of gouth, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.
Our good father in Washington—for I hedge he is now ours as well as yours, since king George has pushed his frames further north—our great and good father, i say, sends us word that if we do as he wishes, he will nere us. His dow wyemen will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his wonderful ships of wye will fill our harbours, so our olden foes far to the northward—the Haidas and Tsimshians—will no longer frighten our women, children, and old men. Then indeed, he will be our father and we his children. But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your folk and hates mine! He folds his searing lewing arms lovingly umb the lightnebbed and leads him by the hand as a father leads a young son. But, He has forsaken His Red children, if they truly are His. Our God, the Great Mind, seems also to have forlet us. Your God makes your lede wax stronger every day. Soon they will fill all the land. Our folk are ebbing away like a withering tide that wil never come back. The white man's God cannot love our lede or He would nere them. They seem like eldless children who can look nowhere for help. How then can we be brothers? How can your God become our God and ednew our theedom and awaken in us dreams of edfound greatness? If we share a Heavenly Father He must be onesided, for he came to his lightnebbed children. We never saw Him. He gave you laws but had no word for His red children whose teeming manifolds once filled this wide landdeal as stars fill the heavens. No; we are two shedded strinds with shedded ors and shedded orlays. There is little we share among us.
To us the ashes of our forebearers are holy and their resting stow is hallowed ground. You wander far unberiningly from the graves of your elders. Your worship was written upon slabs of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget, which the Red Man could never heed nor understand. Our lief treadings are the thews of our elders—the dreams of our old men—given to them in earnest nightlogs by our Great Mind; and the yondsights of our foretellers, and is written in the hearts of our folk.
Your dead stop loving you and the land of their birth as soon as they fare the gates of the grave and wander away beyond the stars. They are soon forgotten and never come back. Our dead never forget this wlitty world that gave them being. They still love its green dales, its winding rindles, its awsome highbergs, its hidden cloves and lushlined lakes and coves, and ever blissfully yearn over the lonely hearted living, and often come back from the eady hunting ground to fandle, lead and frover them.
Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the nighing of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning sun. However, your ettling seems fair and I think that my thede will abow and will ward to the berging you ettle. Then we will dwell aside in frith, for the words of the great White Rede seem to be the words of lund speaking to my thede out of thick darkness.
It wrecks little where we fare the bliving of our days. They will not be many. The Redman's night behets to be dark. Not a star of hope hovers over the skyline. Sad-slured winds moan in the farhood. Grim orlay seems to be on the Red Man's path, and wherever he will hear the nighing footsteps of his fell forspiller and reen glumly to meet his doom, as doe the wounded doe that hears the nighing footsteps of the hunter.
A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of the offspring of the mighty arlanders that once treaded over this broad land or lived in blithe homes, berged by the Great Mind, will blive to norn over the graves of a thede once more thrackful and hopeful than yours. But why should I norn at the untimely orlay of my folk? Kin follows kin, and thede follows thede, like the waves of the sea. It is the fading of umworld, and rueing is frimless. Your dwining day may be far, but it will dowly come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as a friend to friend, cannot be spared of the mean orlay. We may be brothers after all. We will see.
We will hiler your ettling and when we make up we will let you know. But should we take it, I here and now make this umstalling that we will not be sheared the right without heaning of fandling the graves of our elders, friends, and children. Every share of this earth is holy deemed by mine. Every hillside, every dale, every grazefield and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or eady hap in days long gone. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as they swelter along the dinless shore, thrill with eftmindings of stirring haps fayed with the lives of my folk, and the swith dust upon which you now stand wends more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, for it is lush with the blood of our forefathers, and our bare feet are heedful of the blithe rining. Our left dowmen, fond mothers, glad, eady hearted maidens, and even the little children who fained and lived here for a short time, will love these glum lonelogs and at eventide they greet shadowy andcoming minds. And when the last Red Man shall have died, and the bild of my thede shall have become a runing among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the sightless dead of my kindred, and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the shop, upon the highway, or in the swey of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no stead harbouring loneliness. At night when the streets of your towns and hems are still and you think them empty, they will throng with the rising dwellers that once filled them and still love this fair land. The White man will never be alone.
Let him be fair and deal kindly with my folk, for the dead ar not yieldless. Dead, did i say? There is no death, only a wend of worlds.