There is no quiet place in the white man's cities, no place to hear the leaves of spring or the rustle of insects' wings. Perhaps it is because I am a savage and do not understand, but the clatter only seems to insult the ears. The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of the pond, the smell of the wind itself cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with pi?n pine. The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath — the animals, the trees, the man. Like a man who has been dying for many days, a man in your city is numb to the stench. — Chief
...more
