It makes my heart sick when I remember all the good words and the broken promises.
We live, we die, and like the grass and trees, renew ourselves from the soft earth of the grave. Stones crumble and decay, faiths grow old and they are forgotten, but new beliefs are born. The faith of the villages is dust now... but it will grow again... like the trees.
I know that my race must change.
From where the sun now stands I will fight no more.
We soon found that the white men were growing rich very fast, and were greedy.
Finest fur may cover toughest meat.