“The ground on which we stand is sacred ground. It is the dust and blood of our ancestors … A few more passing suns will see us here no more, and our dust and bones will mingle with these same prairies. I see as in a vision of the dying spark of our council fires, the ashes cold and white. I see no longer the curling smoke rising from our lodge poles. I hear no longer the songs of the women as they prepare the meal. The antelope have gone; the buffalo wallows are empty. Only the wail of the coyote is heard. The white man’s medicine is stronger than ours; his iron horse (the railroad) rushes over the buffalo trail. He talks to us through his “whispering spirit” (the telephone). We are like birds with a broken wing. When the buffalo went away the hearts of my people fell to the ground, and they could not lift them up again. After this nothing happened, there was little singing anywhere. “ … Chief Plenty Coups, Crow