New Ulm weekly review. [volume] (New Ulm, Minn.) 1878-1892, 1883-07-11
Chipeta's Address to the TJtes.

People of my tribe! the sorrowine
widow of the dead Ouray speaks to you.
She comes to you, not as the squaw OF
the dead chieftain, to rouse you to wal
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 roamcd and hunted
in the oldcn time, is oyerrun by the
silver-plated Senator and the soft-eyed
dude.
We are driven to q small corner of
the earth to die, while the oppressor
digs gopher holes in the green grass
and sells them to the speculator Of the
great cities toward 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 filled his
pale skin with pie.
Chipeta addresses you as the weep
ing squaw OF great man whose bones
will one day nourish the cucumber vine.
Ouray now sleeps beneath the brown
grass of the canyon, where the soft
spring winds may stir the dead leaves
monkey DER his grave
Ouray was ignorant in the ways of
the pale face. He could not go to Con-
gress, for he was not a 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 Chip
eta. He loved Chipeta like hired man.
That is why the widowed squaw weeps
over him.
A few more years and shall join
Ouray-my chief, Ouray the big Injun
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 business in his nature. He
loved not the garb Of the pale face, but
won my heart while he wore a saddle
blanket and look of woe.
Chipeta looks to the north and the
south. and all about are the graves of
his people. The refinement Of the OPP
pressor has come, with its divorce and
schools and gin cocktails and flour bread
and fall elections, and we linger here
like boil on the neck of fat man.
Even while I talk to you, the damp
winds of April are signing through my
vertebre and I've got more pains in my
back than 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 Chipeta's
gravep None but the starving papoos-
es of my nation. We stand in the gray
mist Of spring like dead burdocks in the
field Of the honest farmer, and the chilly
winds of departing winter make us
hump and gather like a burnt boot.
All we can do is to wall. We are
the redskinned walters from Wailtown.
Colorado is more the home of the Ute.
1t is the dwelling place of the bonanza
Senator, who doesn't know the differ
ence between the plan of salvation and
the previous question.
Chipeta cannot vote. Chipeta cannot
pay taxes to 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
VAASA oAu GAC osIsS99C uCh uLC oIuS1uS.
Translated By Blu Nye.
Sustained Itself.
DR.. Ike, who for some time had been
bestowing medical attentions upon the
wife of black Silas, met the distinguish
ed citizen the other day, and said:
CPS just from yo' house, Mr.. Silas,
an it is wild pride dat I can say dat de
science oh medicine hab, at, my hans
sustained itself. I said dat yo' wife had
swamp fever, didn't I?''
Il believes yer did,
can I was right, sah.''
'.Bqt how is de oman gittin' along
since left de house?''
'sShe's dead.''
But whar does de Establishment oh
science come in?''
'.In de tack dat / foun' out what kill.
ed her. "-Arkaasaav 1raveler,
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