When I was a boy, the Sioux owned the world. The sun rose and set on their land they sent ten thousand men to battle. Where are the warriors today? Who slew them? Where are our lands? Who owns them?
The beauty of that June day was almost staggering. After the wet spring, everything that could turn green had outdone itself in greenness and everything that could even dream of blooming or blossoming was in bloom and blossom. The sunlight was a benediction. The breezes were so caressingly soft and intimate on the skin as to be embarrassing.