Classic Poem

I have lived with my brown brothers
Of the wilderness,
And found them a mystery.
The cunning of the swift-darting trout
A mystery, also;
The wisdom of voyaging birds;
The gophers' winter-sleep.
The knowledge of the bees;
All a mystery.
I have lain out with the brown men
And know they are favored
As all are favored who submit
Willingly to the great Mother.
Nature whispered to them her secrets,
But passed me by.
My savage brothers instructed my civilization.
Tall, stately and full of wisdom
His face chiseled as Napoleon's,
Was Hin-mah-too-yah-laht-kt;
Thunder-rolling-in-the-mountains;
Joseph, Chief of the Nez-Perces;
Who in five battles from the Clearwater
To Bear Paw Mountain,
Made bloody protest against dishonorable Power.
Ah-laht-ma-kaht, his brother,
Who led the young men in battle
And gave his life for his brethren:
Tsootlem-mox-mox, Yellow Bull;
Cunning White Bird, a brown Odysseus,
And indomitable Too-hul-hul-soot,
High Priest, dignified; unafraid; inspired;
Standing half-naked in the Council Teepee,
Insisting in low musical gutturals,

With graceful gesture,
" The Earth is our Mother.
" From her we come;
" To her we return.
" She belongs to all.
" She has gathered into her bosom
" The bones of our ancestors.
" Their spirits will fight with us
" When we battle for our home
" Which is ours from the beginning.
" Who gave to the White Man
" Ownership of the Earth,
" Or what is his authority
" From the Great Spirit
" To tear babes from the nursing breast?
" It is contemptible to have too much where others want. "
He too gave his life for his people.
And again at another time when the politicians
Once more betrayed the promise of the Republic
Squat, slit-eyed Smokhallah,
Shaman of the Wenatchies, and Chelans,
Half-draped in a red blanket,
Harangued his people to die
In brave fight on the bosom
Of the Mother who bore them.
But wily Sulk-tash-kosha, the Half Sun,
Chieftain, persuaded submission.
" The White Men are more abundant
" Than the grass in the Springtime.
" They are without end and beyond number.
" It is hopeless to fight them,
" Right is feeble against many soldiers. "

Where are those many-colored cyclones
Of painted and feather-decked horses
With naked riders, wearing eagle-feathers,
And bonnets of cougar scalps;
Brandishing rifles, bows and lynx-skin quivers,
All gleaming through the yellow dust-cloud,
Galloping, circling, hallooing, whooping,
To the War Council? They are stilled forever.
The Christian Republic planted grass in their mouths.