ForumGarden

As quietly as little rabbit's feet,

The morning-glory sun arrives to greet,

The Red Man as he worships in his way,

For this he asks the spirit every day:

"Before I judge my friend, O let me wear

His moccasins for two long weeks, and share

The path that he would take in wearing them;

Then I shall understand

And not condemn.



Take care.

Gordon.

Where did you find that little tidbit, Gordon? Being Native American I'm interested.

Hello Babyrider,

It was in a book published in Australia in 1963, compiled by Russ Tyson called "Pholosopher's Scrap Book". He was a radio announcer on a morning radio show called "The Hospital Halfhour."

He was sent bits and pieces of information from all over Australia. He collected them and put them into a book.

So, where the poem came from originally, I wouldn't know.

If I find any more such material, I'll let you know.

Take care,

Gordon.

Just beautiful...thanks Gordon :-6

gordonartist wrote: As quietly as little rabbit's feet,

The morning-glory sun arrives to greet,

The Red Man as he worships in his way,

For this he asks the spirit every day:

"Before I judge my friend, O let me wear

His moccasins for two long weeks, and share

The path that he would take in wearing them;

Then I shall understand

And not condemn.



Take care.

Gordon.


To True, this little poem illustrates something that I believe strongly in: Never judge someone unless you have experienced what they have.

Nice one Gordon

Never judge a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes. Then you are a mile away from him and you have his shoes. Then you can say anything you want to about him.

It's a Texas thing.

I was hoping for a little more info on the origin of the "prayer." Native Americans did not call themselves "red", that was the white men who implemented that "title."

jbbarker1947 wrote: Never judge a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes. Then you are a mile away from him and you have his shoes. Then you can say anything you want to about him.



It's a Texas thing.*snort* :yh_giggle

The poem was written by Peggy Windsor Garnett who was born in 1895. It appears in her only collected volume of poetry, Audubon Trail, Carlton Printing Co., San Antonio, 1951.

I doubt whether it's relevant, but she had a second cousin called Neal.

All Is Finished

I Wanted To Give Something Of My Past

To My Grandson.

I Told Him That I Would Sing

The Sacred Wolf Song Over Him.

In My Song, I Applealed To The Wolf

To Come And Preside Over Us,

While I Would Perform The Wolf Ceremony.

So That The Bondage Between My Grandson

And The Wolf Would Be Life Long.



I Sang.

In My Voice Was The Hope

That Clings To Every Heartbeat.

I Sang.

In My Words Were The Powers

I Inherited From My Forefathers.

I Sang.

In My Cupped Hands Lay A Spruce Seed..

The Link To Creation.

I Sang.

In My Eyes, Sparkled Love.

And The Song Floated

On The Sun's Rays From Tree To Tree.

When I Had Ended,

It Was As If The Whole World

Listened With Us

To Hear The Wolf's Reply.

We Waited A Long Time

But None Came.

Again I Sang,

Humbly

But As Invitingly As I Could,

Until My Throat Ached

And My Voice Gave Out.

All Of A Sudden

I Realized Why No Wolves Had Heard

My Sacred Song.

There Were None Left!

My Heart Filled With Tears.

I Could No Longer

Give My Grandson

Faith In The Past, Our Past.

I...wept In Silence.

All Is Finished!

Chief Dan George

Salish

(1899-1981)

Not many points of contact between them, really. That's another world.