San Marcos free press. [volume] (San Marcos, Tex.) 1877-1892, 1883-05-17
CHIpHTA,s ADDRESS TO THE UTES
Translated by Bill Sye.

|
People of my tribe the sorrowine
widow of the dead 0uray speaks tc
you. She comes to you, not as the
squaw of the dead chieftain, to rouse
you to war and victory, but to weep
with you over the loss of her people
and the greed of the pale-face.
The fair Colorado, over whose
rocky mountains we have roamed
and hunted in the olden time, is now
overrun by the silver-plated Senator
and the soft-eyed dude.
We are driven to small corner OF
the earth to die, while the oppressor
digs gopher holes in the green grass,
and sells them to the Speculation OF
the great cities towards the rising
sun.
Through the long, cold winter my
people have passed, in want and cold,
while the conqueror of the peaceful
Ute has worn $3.50 night-shirts and
filed his pale skin with pie.
Chipeta addresses you as the weep
ing squaw of great man whose
bones will one day nourish the Gu
cumber vine. Ouray now sleeps be-
meath the brown grass of the canyon,
where the soft spring winds may stir
the dead leaves, and the young coyote
may come and monkey Ger his grave.
Ouray was ignorant in the ways of
the pale-face. He could not go to
Congress, for he was not citizen of
the United States. He had not taken
out his second papers. He was a
simple child of the forest, but he
stuck to Chipeta. He loved Chipeta
like a hired man. That is why the
widowed squaw weeps over him.
A few more years, and shall join
Ouray-my chief, Ouray, the big In
jun from away up the gulch. His
heart is still open to me. Chipeta
could trust him, even among the
smiling maidens of her tribe. Ouray
was true. There was no funny bust
ness in his nature. He loved not the
garb of the pale-face, but won my
heart while he wore saddle-blanket
and look of woe.
Chipeta looks to the north and the
south, and all about are the graves of
her people. The refinement of the
oppressor has come, with its divorce
and schools and Gin cocktails and
-four bread and fall elections, and we
linger here like boil on the neck of
a fat man.
Even while l talk to you, the damp
winds of April are signing through
my vertebra, and I've got more pains
in my back than a conservatory.
Weep with the widowed Chipeta.
Bow your heads and howl, for our
harps are hung on the willows and
our wild goose is cooked.
Who will be left to mourn at Chi
petals grave? None but the starving
papooses of my nation. We stand in
the gray mist of spring like dead bur-
docks in the field Of the honest farmer,
and the chilly winds of departing
winter make us hump and gather
like q burnt boot.
All we can do is to wall. We are
the red-skinned walters from Wall
town. |
Colorado is no more the home OF
the Ute. 1t is the dwelling place OF
the bonanza Senator, who doesn't
know the difference between the plan
of salvation and the previous ques-
ton.
Chipeta cannot vote. Chipeta can
not pay taxes to a great nation, but
you will be apt to hear her gentle
voice, and her mellow racket will fill
the air till her tongue is cold and
they tuck the buffalo robe about her,
and plant her by the side of her dead
chieftain, where the south wind and
the sage hen are singing.