The Osceola times., 1883-06-23
CHIPETA. THE SQuAw.
Her Eloquent Address to the utes.
Translated by Bill Nye.

Her Eloquent Address to the utes.
Translated by Bill Nye.
People of my tribe the sorrowing
widow Of the dead Ou-ay speaks to you.
She comes to you, not as the squaw Of
the dead chiehain 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 Colombo, over whose rocky
mountains we have roamed and hunted
in the olden time, is now oyerrun by the
silyer-plated senator and the soft-eyed
dude.
We are driven to a 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 of the rising sun.
Through the long cold winter m.s peo-
pie have passed, in want and cold, while
the corqueror of the peaceful Ute has
worn $50 night-shirts and filled his pale
skin With pie.
Cbipeta addresses you a. the weeping
squaw Of great man whose bones will
one day nourish the cucumber vine.
:, Ourav now sleeps beneath the brown
grass of the canyon. where the soft spring
winds may stir the dead leaves and the
young coyote may come and monkey DER
his grave.
Ouray was ignroant Of the ways of the
pale face. He could not 90 TO congress,
Tor 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 Chipeta. He loved
Chipeta like a hired man. That is why
the widowed squaw weeps over him.
A few more wears and shall join
Ouray-rnv 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. 0uray vas 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 10 the north and to 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 fat man.
Even while ! talk TO you, the damp
winds Of April are signing through the
verebne 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 willox and our wild goose
iscooked.
y Who will be left TO weep at Chipeta's
grave? None but the starving papooses
Of my nation. We stand in the gray mist
Of spring like dead burdocks 10 the field
of the honest farmer. and the chilly
winds ofdeparting winter make us hump
and gather like burnt boot.
All we can do is to wall. We are the
red-skinned walters from Wailtown.
Colorado is no longer the home of the
Ute. It is the dwelling place Of the bon
ANA senator, who doesn't know the diff
ference between the plan Of salvation and
the previous question.
Chipeta cannot vote. Chipeta cannot
pay taxes to great nation, but you will
be apt b 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 chieffain, where the south
wind and the sage hen are singing.