The Indian is but a sketch in red crayon of a rudimental manhood. To the problem of his relation to the white race, there is one solution: extermination.

I hate paying taxes. But I love the civilization they give me

Language is the blood of the soul into which thoughts run and out of which they grow.

I think that, as life is action and passion, it is required of a man that he should share the passion and action of his time at peril of being judged not to have lived.

Yes, child of suffering, thou may'st well be sure He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor!

Our brains are seventy-year clocks. The Angel of Life winds them up once for all, then closes the case, and gives the key into the hand of the Angel of the Resurrection.

Every event that a man would master must be mounted on the run, and no man ever caught the reins of a thought except as it galloped past him.