He thought the moment favorable, and was
disposed to "strike while the iron was hot." Rising after a decent
interval had elapsed, this wily Indian looked about him, as if awed
by the presence in which he stood, and doubtful whether he could
venture to utter his thoughts before so many wise chiefs. Having
made an impression by this air of diffidence, he commenced his
harangue.
"I am called the Weasel," he said, modestly. "My name is not taken
from the mightiest tree of the forest, like that of my brother; it
is taken from a sort of rat--an animal that lives by its wits. I am
well named. When my tribe gave me that name, it was just. All Injins
have not names. My great brother, who told us once that we ought to
take the scalp of every white man, but WHO now tells us that we
ought not to take the scalp of every white man, has no name. He is
called Peter, by the pale-faces. It is a good name. But it is a
pale-face name. I wish we knew the real name of my brother. We do
not know his nation or his tribe. Some say he is an Ottawa, some an
Iowa, some even think him a Sioux. I have heard he was a Delaware,
from toward the rising sun. Some, but they must be Injins with
forked tongues, think and say he is a Cherokee! I do not believe
this.
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