In
consequence of this difficulty, and for other reasons to which it
may not be necessary to allude, we shall endeavor to translate that
which passed, as closely as the English idioms will permit us so to
do.
"My father is very welcome!" exclaimed Crowsfeather, who, by many
degrees, exceeded all his companions in consideration and rank. "I
see he has taken many scalps as is his practice, and that the pale-
faces are daily getting to be fewer. Will the sun ever rise on that
day when their wigwams will look like the branches of the oak in
winter? Can my father give us any hope of seeing that hour?"
"It is a long path from the salt-lake out of which the sun rises, to
that other salt-lake in which it hides itself at night. The sun
sleeps each night beneath water, but it is so hot that it is soon
dried when it comes out of its bed in the morning. This is the Great
Spirit's doings, and not ours. The sun is his sun; the Indians can
warm themselves by it, but they cannot shorten its journey a single
tomahawk handle's length. The same is true of time; it belongs to
the Manitou, who will lengthen or shorten it, as he may see fit. We
are his children, and it is our duty to submit.
Pages:
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303