There Is No Such Place As Away.

To Us, The Ashes Of Our Ancestors Are Sacred And Their Resting Place Is Hallowed Ground.

Contaminate Your Bed And You Will One Night Suffocate In Your Own Waste.

The Indian Prefers The Soft Sound Of The Wind Darting Over The Face Of The Pond, The Smell Of The Wind Itself Cleansed By A Midday Rain, Or Scented With Pinon Pine. The Air Is Precious To The Red Man, For All Things Are The Same Breath - The Animals, The Trees, The Man.

Our Religion Is The Traditions Of Our Ancestors - The Dreams Of Our Old Men, Given Them In Solemn Hours Of The Night By The Great Spirit; And The Visions Of Our Sachems, And Is Written In The Hearts Of Our People.

All Things Are Connected, Like The Blood That Runs In Your Family "the Water's Murmur Is The Voice Of My Father's Father." 1854 The Rivers Are Our Brothers. They Quench Our Thirst. They Carry Our Canoes And Feed Our Children. You Must Give To The Rivers The Kindness You Would Give To Any Brother.