children, that were a-sleepin' under the beautiful old trees that your
grandfathers had set out--

"Never see the dear old grounds they walked through, the old rooms full
of the memories of their love, their joys, and their sorrows, and your
loves, and hopes, and joys, and sadness?

"What should you do if some one strong enough, but without a shadow of
justice or reason, should order you out of it at once--force you to go?"

"I should try to kill him," sez the man promptly, before he had time to
think what to say.

"Well," sez Krit, "that is what the Injuns try to do, and the world is
horrified at it. Their homes are jest as dear to them as ours are to us;
their love for their own living and dead is jest as strong. Their grief
and sense of wrong and outrage is even stronger than the white man's
would be, for they don't have the distractions of civilized life to take
up their attention. They brood over their wrongs through long days and
nights, unsolaced by daily papers and latest telegraphic news, and their
famished, freezin' bodies addin' their terrible pangs to their soul's
distress.

"Is it any wonder that after broodin' over their wrongs through long
days and nights, half starved, half naked, their dear old homes
gone--shut up here in the rocky, hateful waste, that they must call
home, and probably their wives and daughters stolen from them by these
agents that are fat and warm, and gettin' rich on the food and clothing
that should be theirs, and receivin' nothing but insults and threats if
they ask for justice, and finally a bullet, if their demands for justice