The White Pine news. [volume] (Treasure City, Nev.) 1868-1906, 1883-05-26
cHIPETA'6 LAST ADDRESS.
Bill Nye's Translation OF the Last La
ment Of the Indian Maiden.
Laramie Boomerang. ]

People of my tribe, the sorrowinp
widow Of the dead Ouray speaks to
you. She comes to you, not as the
widow 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.
Inc fair Colorado, over whose
rocky mountains we have roameo
and hunted in the olden time, is now
oyerrun by the silver-plated Senator
and the soft-eyed dude.
We are driven TO the small corner
OF the earthto die, while the oppressor
digs gopher holes in the green grass
ana sells them to the speculator of
the great cities towards the rising sun.
Through the long, cold winter my
people have passed, in want and in
eoId, while the conqueror Of the
peaceful Ute has worn $3.50 night
shirts and filled his skin with pie.
Chipeta addresses you as the Weep
ing squaw ofa great man whose bones
VIII one day nourish the cucumber
vine. Ouray now sleeps beneath the
Drown grass of the canon, where the
soft spring winds may stir the dead
leaves and the young coyote may
come and monkey over his grave.
Ouray was ignorant in the ways OF
the pale face. lie could not 90 to
Congress for he was not a citizen OF
the United States. lie had not taken
out his first papers. lie was a simple
child Of the forest, but he stuck TO
Chipeta. lie loved Chipeta like
hired man. That IS why the widow
cd squaw weeps over him.
A few more years and shall ioin
Onray, 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 bnsi-
ness in his nature. lie loved not the
garb Of The pale face, but won my
neart when hs wore saddle-blanket
and a look OF woe.
Chipeta looks To the north and TO
the south, and al about are the
graves OF her people. The refine
uent of the oppres>or has come, with
1t divorce anu gin cocktails and fall |
Nit1tiohs, auu lilEtI mere llke Doll |
on the neck OF fat man.
Even while talk 10 YOU, the damp |
winds of April are signing through |
my vertebr@, and I've got more pains |
in my back than "A conservatory.
Weep with the widowed Chipeta. |
Bow your hands and howl. for our
harps are hung on the willows and |
our wild goose is cooked.
Who Will be left TO mourn at Chipe-
ta's grave None but the starving |
papooses Of my nation. We stand in |
the gray midst Of spring like dead
burdocks in the fields OF the honest
farmer, and the chilly winds of de-
parting winter make US hump and |
gather like burned boot.
All we can do il to vail. We are
the red-skin walters from Waiitown
Colorado is no longer the home OF
the Ute. 1t l. the dwelling place of
the bonanza Senator, who doesn't |
know the difference between the plan
OF salvation and the previous ques-
lion.
Chipeta cannot vote. Chipeta can
not pay taxes to great nation, but
you VIII 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 |
lay her by the side OF her dead chief
tain, where the south winds and the
sage hen are singing.