My father was the first to see through the schemes of the white man.

Our chiefs are killed. . . . The little children are freezing to death. . . . My people have no blankets, no food. . . . My heart is sick and sad. . . . I will fight no more forever.

We do not want churches. They will teach us to quarrel about God.

I pressed my father's hand and told him I would protect his grave with my life. My father smiled and passed away to the spirit land.

You might as well expect rivers to run backwards as any man born free to be contented penned up.

A chief called Lawyer, because he was a great talker, took the lead in the council, and sold nearly all the Nez Perce country.

When I think of our condition, my heart is heavy. I see men of my own race treated as outlaws and driven from country to country, or shot down like animals.