By The Author
My object in publishing the “Red Man’s Rebuke” on the bark of the white birch tree, is out of loyalty to my own people, and gratitude to the Great Spirit, who in his wisdom provided for our use for untold generations, this most remarkable tree with manifold bark used by us instead of paper, being of greater value to us as it could not be injured by sun or water.
Out of the bark of this wonderful tree were made hats, caps, and dishes for domestic use, while our maidens tied with it the knot that sealed their marriage vow; wigwams were made of it, as well as large canoes that outrode the violent storms on lake and sea; it was also used for light and fuel at our war councils and spirit dances. Originally the shore of our northern lakes and streams were fringed with it and evergreen, and the white charmingly contrasted with the green mirrored from the water was indeed beautiful, but like the red man this tree is vanishing from our forests.
“Alas for us; our day is o’erOur fires are out from shore to shore;No more for us the wild deer bounds—The plow is on our hunting grounds.The pale man’s ax rings through our woods,The pale man’s sail skims o’er floods;Our pleasant springs are dry.Our children—look by power oppressed,Beyond the mountains of the west—Our children go—to die.”
“Alas for us; our day is o’erOur fires are out from shore to shore;No more for us the wild deer bounds—The plow is on our hunting grounds.The pale man’s ax rings through our woods,The pale man’s sail skims o’er floods;Our pleasant springs are dry.Our children—look by power oppressed,Beyond the mountains of the west—Our children go—to die.”
“Alas for us; our day is o’erOur fires are out from shore to shore;No more for us the wild deer bounds—The plow is on our hunting grounds.The pale man’s ax rings through our woods,The pale man’s sail skims o’er floods;Our pleasant springs are dry.Our children—look by power oppressed,Beyond the mountains of the west—Our children go—to die.”
“Alas for us; our day is o’er
Our fires are out from shore to shore;
No more for us the wild deer bounds—
The plow is on our hunting grounds.
The pale man’s ax rings through our woods,
The pale man’s sail skims o’er floods;
Our pleasant springs are dry.
Our children—look by power oppressed,
Beyond the mountains of the west—
Our children go—to die.”
Chicago in my Grandfather’s Days.—By Chief Pokagon.
Chicago in my Grandfather’s Days.—By Chief Pokagon.