The Durham daily globe. (Durham, N.C.) 1889-1894, 1894-10-01
AN ARORIGINAL'S LAMENT.
The Sorrowful Meditations of an Gid Pot
q I nrnin

C@1o LA4C ( A41A - 49,
face of the earth! The land that was
ours is gone from US and the rocks are
our bed and the leaves our cover.
We sigh in vain for yesterday, we
have no hope. no comfort for tO-mOT-
row. All our greatness is gone and
the red mans days are but few.
return to the land of my fathers. l
gaze on the placid river. O., that |
might die and sleep here where the
great WaubOnsie breathed the air, be-
meath the same trees which have shell
tered him.
O, where are the friends Of my
father? Where is the war chief, Wau-
bOnsie?
Here | stand where my tribe once
! roamed. out no vestige of the powerful
POttawatomies remain. The lake and
the river on which my canoe was wont
to glide knows not the dip of the red
skins paddle. Where once | moored
my canoe to the shore now the great
steamer is at anchor and the dip of my
paddle is heard no more forever.
Here the Kickapoos caught the
| great fish which weighed nigh to the
half hundred and now the pale face
gathers in the half pound infant of the
deep and calls it game. Alas, O, my
Master, I sigh for those golden days
but they are no more.
No more does the flint tipped arrow
fell the deer and the woodland resOunds
no more with his bounding footsteps.
Upon the brink of the flowing river
comes the gentle bovine in his stead.
The majesty of nature is dwarfed and
humbled in the march Of the white
man, and on his trail is naught but
natures ruin.
Igaze on the camp Of the white mar
and hear him call it Chicago. 0. Nau-
nee-bo-zhO forgive the cruel white man
for destroying the peace of the great
~Shaubanet.
Here | seek in vain for the wigyvam
Of my sire and find in its place the
Sch0olhouse of the white man.
Here | turn to the spot where the
great chief held his councils and where
the pipe of peace was smoked by the
great warriors and find a temple OF the
city. The brick walls rise on the spot
where the deerallin vas spread anl the
great trees have been taken away.
The memories Of the red man have
been buried beneath the white mans
ak and trOwel.
Here where the great WaubDa~ie
held council with The peace chief:
| here where the MaScOutinS and the
Winncbagoes assembled in opposition
20 the great Black Hawk. now the
pale faced chief, the mayor. gathers
his peace warriors about him. and re-
1-, " --,-1 H. 1,,l r IL
man.
O., great is the work Of the pale face;
great is the civilizing influence Of the
usurper.
Why do we suffer ourselves to be
banished from the land the Great Mas
ter gave us? Is it for the t~reachery of
NaunOngee or the murders of Red
Bird?
Where the trail ran to the great
lake on which my fathers fiOated their
canoes and shot the wild fowl; the lake
which we knew as the Big Foot" now
runs the iron rail and the pale faces
which inhabit the groves of my ances-
tors go thither but they call it the lake
of Geneva. O, memories of Kishkau-
kOn, wherefore are the idols of my sireS
SO shattered? All about me is desOla-
ton and | turf from the scene which |
sought, to return to the land of the set
ting sun, driven thence by the remOrse-
less usurpers. The pale face has no
| love for our memories and our tradi-
tiOns he regardeth not.
O., sad is the heart of the red man!
Where l wooed my squaw | now be-
hold the home of the law chief who
knows not the word of justice. On the
same swamp where my pappoose pad
died is now the high temple n the
homes of the pale faces.
Memories of the chase are swept from
my mind as | / behold the works of the
despoiler and the dealings of the des-
pot.
Where the war dance made the air
ring | 10 hear the brass band playing
"McGinty'' and the tolling of the bells
in the towers tell of the departure Of
the red man. who worshipped the Great
Master in the quiet groves where the
sky and the trees were not shut out.
To the red man nature was the high
est art, and as l sat in my canoe with
Okemos and my little pappoose, float
ing between the green banks, over the
silvery waves, l saw the Great Master
in everything. There was no black
smoke. no walls and fences to mar the
beautiful land which the Great Master
gave to the red man.
O, gone are the days of my youth and
the memories of my sires, and the beau
ties Of our b~Ountiful land are forever
buried under the spade and the plow,
the hammer and the wheel.
wrap my blanket about me and 60
my way. My fathers and myself are
forgotten and the land of our liberty
shall know OF US never again.-Arkan-
saw Traveller.
Indians Tracking.
1t was a most strange and interesting
experience to see the Indian read all
the signs Of the different animals in
the grass or among the woods with the
same ease as we read an open book.
The least diSarrangcment in the grass
or sticks, however small. was enough.