Truly our tribes were not blood-thirsty, for the love of blood or the lust of glory, but instead were compelled to yield to a superior race, and our noblest men sleep in narrow graves with the best, the proudest of the race, dead around them. Exterminated rather than educated until the noblest of our race are gone, and out of the miserable remnant comes a feeble cry today, that for nearly four centuries the redman has merely existed without a country. Love for the child-race of a bygone age, tears for the infant race, in all its infancy a type of primitive manhood, reserved and poised, courageous, enduring, master of self and above all self controlled, a proud vanishing figure in a nation of unrest. Love for the adult race saddened with regrets hanging heavy and the stain of blood on their hands from the infant tears for the superior race, for who can tell what this child-race might have been when they were full grown and educated. Tears and love, love and tears, sweetly mingled when infant and adult meet in one great brotherhood of forgiveness. Always thus, since time began, someone must die a martyr for the beginning of every cause, and it has ever been thus, since the dawn of history, among all races and nations, the heathen, the barbarian and the civilized nations of the world. Educated man today through his long evolution of centuries know there is only one God, and all are seeking one goal and the soul of man cannot be lost just because he worships a little different from his fellow man. Every race has its own creed, and one race has no more of a right to say another race is lost forever and eternally just because they differ in their form of worship, and the rising generation of the present century knows better. So at least let the tradition of the noble type be just, as he is being fast absorbed into another race and even at this day all that remains of him is tradition of his past existence, and usually that tradition is of a mongrel type, rather than the true. We are always afraid of the visible devil, (oh-mah-ha) that is the living devil here on this earth, as we are compelled to guard continually against these monsters in keeping ourselves from being harmed. We are at all times at peace with God, we love Him as the Great Ruler and we are always ready to offer a prayer and to worship him. When an Indian sits down to smoke, he fills his pipe, lights it and takes a deep breath filling his lungs with smoke, and then expels it slowly through his nostrils and mouth with a low grunt. Then in a low and solemn voice he offers up a prayer to God, asking Him for good health, long life and good luck. This good luck is in earning money, accumulating vast riches, success in fishing and securing wild game, and in fact all the success in the pursuit of an Indian life.