Letter sent by Red Chief Seatle of the Suwamish tribe to President Francis Pierce of the United States of America in 1855

The Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. The Great Chief also sends us words of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him, since we know that he has little need of our friendship in return. But we will consider your offer, for we know that if we do not do so, the white man may come with gun and take our land. What Chief Seatle says, the Great Chief in Washington can count on as truly as our white brothers can count on the return of the seasons. My words are like the stars - they do not set.

How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? The idea is strange to us. We do not own the freshness of the air or the sparkle of the water. How can you buy them from us? 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 every 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 shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is just not water but the blood of our ancestors. The water's murmur is the voice of my father's father.

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 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.

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 nights 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 father's graves behind, and he does not care. He kidnaps the earth from his children, and he does not care. His father's graves and his children's birthright are forgotten. He treats his mother, the earth, and his sister, 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. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of a red man. But perhaps it is because the red man is a primitive 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 insect wings. But perhaps because I am a savage and do not understand - the clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is there to the ears if man cannot hear the lonely cry of the whippoorwill or the argument of frogs around a pond at night? 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 the midday rain, or scented with pine. The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath - the beasts, the trees, and man. The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man dying from many days, he is numb to the smell.

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 receives 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.

If we decide to accept your offer, I will make one condition. The white man must treat the beasts of this land as his brothers. I am a savage and do not understand any other way. I have seen a thousand rotting buffaloes in the prairie, left by the white man who shot them from a passing train. I am a savage and 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 beasts? If all beasts were gone, men would die from great loneliness of the 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 your 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 it to himself.

Our children have seen their fathers humbled in defeat. Our warriors have felt shame. After defeat they turn their days to idleness and contaminate their bodies with sweets, food, and drink. It matters little where we pass the rest of our days - they are not many. A few more hours, a few more winters and none of the children of the great tribes that once lived on the earth, or that once roamed in small bands in the woods, will be left to mourn the graves of the people once as powerful and hopeful as yours.

One thing we know that the white man may one day discover. Our God is the same God. You may think that you own him as you wish to own our land. But you cannot. He is the God of men. 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 other tribes. Continue to contaminate your own bed and you will one night suffocate in your own waste. When the buffaloes are all slaughtered, the wild horses all tamed, the sacred corners of the forest heavy with scent of many men, and the view of the ripe hills blotted by talking wires, where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone. And what is it to say goodbye to the swift and the hunt? - the end of living and the beginning of survival.

We might understand if we knew what was it that the white man dreams, what hopes he describes to his children on long winter nights, what visions he burns into their minds so that they will wish for tomorrow. But we are savages. The white man's dreams are hidden from us. And because they are hidden, we will go on our own way. If we agree, it will be to secure the reservation you have promised. Then perhaps we may live out our brief days as we wish. When the last red man has vanished from the earth, and the memory is only a shadow of a cloud moving across the prairie, these shores and forests will still hold the spirits of my people, for they love this earth as the newborn loves its mother's heartbeat.

If we sell our land, love it as we have loved it. Care for it as we have cared for it. Hold in your mind the memory of the land as it is when you take it, and with all your strength, with all your might, and with all your heart, preserve it for your children, and love it as God loves us all. One thing we know - our God is the same God. This earth is precious to him. Even the white man cannot be exempt from the common destiny.