Behold, My Friends, The Spring Is Come;

I Have Killed, Robbed, And Injured Too Many White Men To Believe In A Good Peace. They Are Medicine, And I Would Eventually Die A Lingering Death. I Had Rather Die On The Field Of Battle. Look At Me, See If I Am Poor, Or My People Either. The Whites May Get Me At Last, As You Say, But I Will Have Good Times Till Then. You Are Fools To Make Yourselves Slaves To A Piece Of Fat Bacon, Some Hard-tack, And A Little Sugar And Coffee.

What White Woman, However Lonely, Was Ever Captive Or Insulted By Me? Yet They Say I Am A Bad Indian.

You Come Here To Tell Us Lies, But We Don't Want To Hear Them. If We Told You More, You Would Have Paid No Attention. That Is All I Have To Say.

For Us, Warriors Are Not What You Think Of As Warriors. The Warrior Is Not Someone Who Fights, Because No One Has The Right To Take Another Life. The Warrior, For Us, Is One Who Sacrifices Himself For The Good Of Others. His Task Is To Take Care Of The Elderly, The Defenseless, Those Who Can Not Provide For Themselves, And Above All, The Children, The Future Of Humanity.

What White Man Can Say I Never Stole His Land Or A Penny Of His Money? Yet They Say That I Am A Thief.