The Great Spirit knows them
all, but he does not mind them. He is wise, and hearkens only to his
own mind. So should it be with a council of great chiefs. It should
listen to its own mind. That is wisdom. To listen to the mind of a
weasel is folly.
"Brothers, you have been told that this weasel does not know the
tribe of which I am born. Why should you know it? Injins once were
foolish. While the pale-faces were getting one hunting-ground after
another from them, they dug up the hatchet against their own
friends. They took each other's scalps. Injin hated Injin--tribe
hated tribe. I am of no tribe, and no one can hate me for my people.
You see my skin. It is red. That is enough. I scalp, and smoke, and
talk, and go on weary paths for all Injins, and not for any tribe. I
am without a tribe. Some call me the Tribeless. It is better to bear
that name, than to be called a weasel. I have done."
Peter had so much success by this argumentum ad hominem, that most
present fancied that the weasel would creep through some hole, and
disappear. Not so, however, with Ungque. He was a demagogue, after
an Indian fashion; and this is a class of men that ever "make
capital" of abuses, as we Americans say, in our money-getting
habits.
Pages:
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583