We have decided that the joy of the red man is fleeting.

To-night a flush mantles your dark cheeks, but to-morrow it will be a bobtail flush.

What have we to live for but vengeance on the white man and a little booze now and then?
Nothing! Our squaws once were beautiful as the wild flowers of the prairie, but now the prize beauty of our tribe is Malt Extract Maria, whose nose is out of joint, whose eyes are skewed, whose teeth are covered with fine-cut tobacco, and who lost one of her ears last week by accidentally getting it into the mouth of her husband.
"My brothers, we are not built to weep.

It is not the way of the noble red man.

A few more summers and we will be no more.