Contaminate Your Bed And You Will One

Man Does Not Weave This Web Of Life. He Is Merely A Strand Of It. Whatever He Does To The Web, He Does To Himself.

The Indian Prefers The Soft Sound Of The Wind Darting Over The Face Of The Pond, The Smell Of The Wind Itself Cleansed By A Midday Rain, Or Scented With Pinon Pine. The Air Is Precious To The Red Man, For All Things Are The Same Breath - The Animals, The Trees, The Man.

The Earth Is Our Mother. Whatever Befalls The Earth Befalls The Sons Of Earth. If Men Spit Upon The Ground, They Spit Upon Themselves.

Whatever Seattle Says, The Great Chief At Washington Can Rely Upon With As Much Certainty As He Can Upon The Return Of The Sun Or The Seasons.

How Can You Buy Or Sell The Sky, The Warmth Of The Land? ... The End Of Living And The Beginning Of Survival.