In 1854, President Franklin Pierce made an offer for a large area of land in 
Washington State that was occupied by the Puget Sound Indians, and promised a 
reservation for the Indian people. Chief Seattle's reply, published here in 
full, has been described as the most beautiful and profound statement on the 
environment ever made.
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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 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.

     This shining water that moves in the streams and the 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 ghastly 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 
fathers' graves and his children's birthright is 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 different from your ways. The sight of your 
cities pains the eyes of the red man. But perhaps it is because the red man is 
a savage and does not understand.

     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 an insect's wings. But perhaps 
it is because I am a savage and do not understand. 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 the frogs around a 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 the wind itself, cleansed by 
rain or scented with the pine cone.

     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 men, 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 received 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.

     So we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we decide to accept I 
will make one condition. The white man must treat the beasts of this land as 
his brothers.

     I am savage and I do not understand any other way. I have seen a 
thousand rotting buffaloes on the prairie, left by the white man who shot them 
from a passing train. I am a savage and I do not understand how the smoking 
iron horse can be more important than the buffalo that we kill only to stay 
alive.

     What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, man would 
die from a great loneliness of spirit. For whatever happens to the beasts, 
soon happens to man. All things are connected.

     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 
what we have taught our children, that the earth is our mother. Whatever 
befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. Man did not weave the web of 
life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to 
himself.

     Even the white man, whose God walks and talks with him as friend to 
friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after 
all. We shall see. One thing we know which 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. This earth is precious to him, and to harm the 
earth is to heap contempt upon 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. That destiny is a mystery to us, 
for we do not understand when the buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses 
are tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men 
and the view of the ripe hills blotted out by talking wires. Where is the 
thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone.

                                     Chief Seattle, 1854
