The following passage from the FLUME’s June, 1881 paper was probably close to the time of the passing of  an aged Indian in the Park area.  The influences of the white society are present and there was certainly some loss in the translation if that was the reason for quotes.    One can still imagine the scene of such a talk.  

The Aged Indian’s Lament 

            “Warriors, I am an aged hemlock. 

            The mountain winds sigh among my withered limbs.  A few more suns and I shall fall amid the solemn hush of the forest, and my place will be vacant.  I shall trend the walks of the happy hunting grounds, and sing glad hallelujahs where the worm dieth not and the fire water is not quenched. 

            Once I was the pride of my tribe and the swift foot of the prairie.  I stood with my brethren like the towering oak and my prowess was known throughput the nation.  Now I bow to the wintry blast and hump myself with a vigorous and unanimous hump. 

            My eagle eye is dimmed.  The fleetness of my limb is gone.  The vigor of my youth is past.  I do not shout now to my warriors, for the cliffs and rocks refuse to answer back my cry and it sinks away like the sad moan of the low-grade refractory mule. 

            When my brothers go forth to shoot the swift footed ranchman as he gambols on the hillside, I cower above the camp fire and rub mutton tallow on my favorite chilblain through the still watches of the night. 

            Warriors, I yearn for immortality.  The white father has said that over there the life is one of uninterrupted editorial excursion.  No inflammatory rheumatism can ever enter there. 

            I want to be a copper colored angel and out-fly the boss angel of the whole outfit.  I want to see Pocahontas and other great men who have climbed the golden stair.  I want something to eat so as to surprise my stomach.  I want a long period of rest and soul-destroying inactivity. 

            Warriors, my sun is set.  I have lost my grip.  My features are sharpened by age and one by one my white teeth have resigned, till but two are left and they do not seem to mash by an overwhelming majority.  I cannot masticate my buffalo tripe or even relish my tarantula on toast as I once could. 

            My twilight is fading into evening and the day is gone.  I hear the crickets chirp in the dead grass and I know that night is at hand.  Far away upon the gentle winds I hear the cooing of the Colorado tom-cat and the thump of the lid as it misses the cat and strikes with a hallow mournful sound against the corral.  A few more moons and you will meet but you will miss me.  There will be one vacant chair. 

            The veal cutlet and the watermelon of the pale face hold out no inducement to me.  The circus and the ice cream festival will miss me, for I shall be far away in the ether blue where  the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest than I shall know what to do with. 

            Farewell, my warriors.  Make my humble grave low in the valley where the wild columbine and the Rocky Mountain flea can clamber over my last resting place, and carve upon the slab above my head the name of Minneconjospresipitatenuxqonicatahsku- nkahhcoquipaehahamazanpahkahconkaska.   The crosseyed-caterpillar-who-walks-on-his hind-legs-and-howls-like-the-pale-face-papoose-who-advertises-to-hold-down-the-blond-bumble-bee.” - Bill Nye.