When the green hills are covered with talking wires and the wolves no longer sing, what good will the money you paid for our land be then

Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless. Dead, did I say? There is no death, only change of worlds.

To us, the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground.

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.

What is there to life if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around the pool at night?

We do not own the freshness of the air or the sparkle of the water. How can you buy them from us?