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\title{Speech on the proposed treaty to sell Indian lands to the U. S.}
\author{by Chief Seattle of the Suquamish Tribe}
\date{1851}
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How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land?  The idea is
strange to us.

If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the
water, how can you buy them?

Every part of this earth is sacred to my people.  Every shining pine
needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every
clearing and humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of
my people.  The sap which courses through the trees carries the
memories of the red man.

The white man's dead forget the country of their birth when they go
to walk among the stars.  Our dead never forget this beautiful earth,
for it is the mother of the red man.  We are a part of the earth and
it is a part of us.  The perfumed flowers are our sisters; the deer,
the horse, the great eagle, these are our brothers.  The rocky crests,
the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony, and man--all
belong to the same family.

So, when the Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to
buy our land, he asks much of us.  The Great Chief sends word he will
reserve us a place so that we can live comfortably to ourselves.  He
will be our father and we will be his children.

So we will consider your offer to buy our land.  But it will not be
easy.  For this land is sacred to us.  The shining water that moves in
the streams and rivers is not just water but the blood of our
ancestors.  If we sell you land, you must remember that it is sacred,
and you must teach your children that it is sacred and that each
ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events and
memories in the life of my people.  The water's murmur is the voice of
my father's father.

The rivers are our brothers, they quench our thirst.  The rivers carry
our canoes, and feed our children.  If we sell you our land, you must
remember, and teach your children, that the rivers are our brothers
and yours, and you must henceforth give the rivers the kindness you
would give any brother.

We know that the white man does not understand our ways.  One portion
of land is the same to him as the next, for he is a stranger who comes
in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs.  The earth is
not his brother, but his enemy, and when he has conquered it, he moves
on.  He leaves his father's grave behind, and he does not care.  He
kidnaps the earth from his children, and he does not care.  His
father's grave, and his children's birthright are forgotten.  He
treats his mother, the earth, and his brother, the sky, as things to
be bought, plundered, sold like sheep or bright beads.  His appetite
will devour the earth and leave behind only a desert.

I do not know.  Our ways are diffrerent from your ways.  The sight of
your cities pains the eyes of the red man.  There is no quiet place in
the white man's cities.  No place to hear the unfurling of leaves in
spring or the rustle of the insect's wings.  The clatter only seems to
insult the ears.  And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the
lonely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of frogs around the
pond at night?  I am a red man and do not understand.  The Indian
prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of a pond and
the smell of wind itself, cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with
pi\~{n}on pine.

The air is precious to the red man for all things share the same
breath, the beast, the tree, the man, they all share the same breath.
The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes.  Like a man
dying for many days he is numb to the stench.  But if we sell you our
land, you must remember that the air is precious to us, that the air
shares its spirit with all the life it supports.

The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also receives his
last sigh.  And if we sell you our land, you must keep it apart and
sacred as a place where even the white man can go to taste the wind
that is sweetened by the meadow's flowers.

You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet is the
ashes of our grandfathers.  So that they will respect the land, tell
your children that the earth is rich with the lives of our kin.  Teach
your children that we have taught our children that the earth is our
mother.  Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth.
If men spit upon the ground, they spit upon themselves.

This we know: the earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the
earth.  All things are connected.  We may be brothers after all.  We
shall see.  One thing we know that the white man may one day discover:
our God is the same God.

You may think now that you own Him as you wish to own our land; but
you cannot.  He is the God of man, and his compassion is equal for the
red man and the white.  The earth is precious to Him, and to harm the
earth is to heap contempt on its creator.  The whites too shall pass;
perhaps sooner than all other tribes. Contaminate your bed and you
will one night suffocate in your own waste.

But in your perishing you will shine brightly fired by the strength of
the God who brought you to this land and for some special purpose gave
you dominion over this land and over the red man.

The destiny is a mystery to us, for we do not understand when the
buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses are tame, the secret
corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men and the view of
the ripe hills blotted by talking wires.

Where is the thicket?  Gone.  Where is the eagle?  Gone.

The end of living and the beginning of survival.

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--Chief Seattle of the Suquamish Tribe in Puget Sound, in response to
a proposed treaty in 1851 in which they were persuaded to sell two
million acres of land for \$150,000.
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