The life of an Indian is like the wings of the air. That is why you notice the hawk knows how to get his prey. The Indian is like that. The hawk swoops down on its prey, so does the Indian. In his lament he is like an animal. For instance, the coyote is sly, so is the Indian. The eagle is the same. That is why the Indian is always feathered up, he is a relative to the wings of the air.

All things are our relatives; what we do to everything, we do to ourselves. All is really One.

And if the great fear had not come upon me, as it did, and forced me to do my duty, I might have been less good to the people than some man who had never dreamed at all, even with the memory of so great a vision in me.

If I thought that I was doing it myself, the hole would close up and no power could come through. Then everything I could do would be foolish.

The song and the drumming were like this: Behold, a sacred voice is calling you; All over the sky a sacred voice is calling.

As you walk upon the sacred earth, treat each step as a prayer.

I looked below and saw my people there, and all were well and happy except one, and he was lying like the dead - and that one was myself.