Huron Quotes

The Hurons hold the pride of the Delawares; the last of the high blood of the Mohicans is in their power,

On the mainland of America, the Wampanoags of Massasoit and King Philip had vanished, along with the Chesapeakes, the Chickahominys, and the Potomacs of the great Powhatan confederacy. (Only Pocahontas was remembered.) Scattered or reduced to remnants were the Pequots, Montauks, Nanticokes. Machapungas, Catawbas, Cheraws, Miamis, Hurons, Eries, Mohawks, Senecas, and Mohegans. (Only Uncas was remembered.) Their musical names remained forever fixed on the American land, but their bones were forgotten in a thousand burned villages or lost in forests fast disappearing before the axes of twenty million invaders. Already the once sweet-watered streams, most of which bore Indian names, were clouded with silt and the wastes of man; the very earth was being ravaged and squandered. To the Indians it seemed that these Europeans hated everything in nature—the living forests and their birds and beasts, the grassy glades, the water, the soil, and the air itself.

Merrows,” the project leader shouted over the hovertruck’s whining stabilizers. “Mermaids! Merfolk! Whatever you folks call ‘em. They are under the citizenship of Huron and in need of help. If they are to be saved, I must have access to the voice of Huron. I may access the voice through my grandson, Nikolas.

mainland of America, the Wampanoags of Massasoit and King Philip had vanished, along with the Chesapeakes, the Chickahominys, and the Potomacs of the great Powhatan confederacy. (Only Pocahontas was remembered.) Scattered or reduced to remnants were the Pequots, Montauks, Nanticokes. Machapungas, Catawbas, Cheraws, Miamis, Hurons, Eries, Mohawks, Senecas, and Mohegans. (Only Uncas was remembered.) Their musical names remained forever fixed on the American land, but their bones were forgotten in a thousand burned villages or lost in forests fast disappearing before the axes of twenty million invaders. Already the once sweet-watered streams, most of which bore Indian names, were clouded with silt and the wastes of man; the very earth was being ravaged and squandered. To the Indians it seemed that these Europeans hated everything in nature—the living forests and their birds and beasts, the grassy glades, the water, the soil, and the air itself.

Do my brothers know the name of this favored people?” “It was the Lenni Lenape,” returned Magua, affecting to bend his head in reverence to their former greatness. “It was the tribes of the Lenape! The sun rose from water that was salt, and set in water that was sweet, and never hid himself from their eyes. But why should I, a Huron of the woods, tell a wise people their own traditions? Why remind them of their injuries; their ancient greatness; their deeds; their glory; their happiness; their losses; their defeats; their misery? Is there not one among them who has seen it all, and who knows it to be true? I have done. My tongue is still for my heart is of lead. I listen.

For in their interflowing aggregate, those grand fresh-water seas of ours,--Erie, and Ontario, and Huron, and Superior, and Michigan,--possess an ocean-like expansiveness, with many of the ocean's noblest traits; with many of its rimmed varieties of races and climes. They contain round archipelagoes of romantic isles, even as the Polynesian water do; in large part, are shored by two great contrasting nations, as the Atlantic is; they furnish long maritime approaches to our numerous territorial colonies from the East, dotted all round their banks; here and there are frowned upon by batteries, and by the goat-like craggy guns of Mackinaw; they have heard the fleet thunderings of naval victories; at intervals, they have yield their beaches to wild barbarians, whose red painted faces flash from out their pelty wigwams; for leagues and leagues are flanked by ancient and unentered forests, where the gaunt pines stand like serried lines of kings in Gothic genealogies; those same woods harboring wild Afric beasts of prey, and silken creatures whose exported furs gives robes to Tartar Emperors; they mirror the paved capitals of Buffalo and Cleveland, as well as Winnebago villages; they float alike the full-rigged merchant ship, the armed cruiser of the State, the steamer, and the birch canoe; they are swept by Borean and dismasting blasts as direful as any that lash the salted wave; they know what shipwrecks are, for out of sight of land, however inland, they have drowned full many a midnight ship with all its shrieking crew.

I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you

Twenty years after the collapse they were still in motion, traveling back and forth along the shores of Lakes Huron and Michigan, west as far as Traverse City, east and north over the 49th parallel to Kincardine. They followed the St. Clair River south to the fishing towns of Marine City and Algonac and back again. This territory was for the most part tranquil now.

He tells me how the Great Lakes came to be. All where Lake Huron is now, he says, used to be flat land, a wide flat plain. Then came the ice, creeping down from the north, pushing deep into the low places. Like that—and he shows me his hand with his spread fingers pressing the rock-hard ground where we are sitting. His fingers make hardly any impression at all and he says, “Well, the old ice cap had a lot more power behind it than this hand has.” And then the ice went back, shrank back towards the North Pole where it came from, and left its fingers of ice in the deep places it had gouged, and ice turned to lakes and there they were today. They were new, as time went. I try to see that plain before me, dinosaurs walking on it, but I am not able even to imagine the shore of the Lake when the Indians were there, before Tuppertown. The tiny share we have of time appalls me, though my father seems to regard it with tranquillity. Even my father, who sometimes seems to me to have been at home in the world as long as it has lasted, has really lived on this earth only a little longer than I have, in terms of all the time there has been to live in. He has not known a time, any more than I, when automobiles and electric lights did not at least exist. He was not alive when this century started. I will be barely alive—old, old—when it ends. I do not like to think of it. I wish the Lake to be always just a lake, with the safe-swimming floats marking it, and the breakwater and the lights of Tuppertown.

Not very long ago I was driving with my husband on the back roads of Grey County, which is to the north and east of Huron County. We passed a country store standing empty at a crossroads. It had old-fashioned store windows, with long narrow panes. Out in front there was a stand for gas pumps which weren't there anymore. Close beside it was a mound of sumac trees and strangling vines, into which all kinds of junk had been thrown. The sumacs jogged my memory and I looked back at the store. It seemed to me that I had been here once, and the the scene was connected with some disappointment or dismay. I knew that I had never driven this way before in my adult life and I did not think I could have come here as a child. It was too far from home. Most of our drives out of town where to my grandparents'house in Blyth--they had retired there after they sold the farm. And once a summer we drove to the lake at Goderich. But even as I was saying this to my husband I remembered the disappointment. Ice cream. Then I remembered everything--the trip my father and I had made to Muskoka in 1941, when my mother was already there, selling furs at the Pine Tree Hotel north of Gravehurst.

I said life is a tale, it begins and it ends And forever's a word that we can't understand Well I know that my life's better when we're together So why can't our story just go on forever? The Man Who Lives Forever

ELECTION DAY, NOVEMBER, 1884. If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and show, 'Twould not be you, Niagara—nor you, ye limitless prairies—nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado, Nor you, Yosemite—nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyser- loops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing, Nor Oregon's white cones—nor Huron's belt of mighty lakes— nor Mississippi's stream: —This seething hemisphere's humanity, as now, I'd name—the still small voice vibrating—America's choosing day, (The heart of it not in the chosen—the act itself the main, the quadriennial choosing,) The stretch of North and South arous'd—sea-board and inland —Texas to Maine—the Prairie States—Vermont, Virginia, California, The final ballot-shower from East to West—the paradox and con- flict, The countless snow-flakes falling—(a swordless conflict, Yet more than all Rome's wars of old, or modern Napoleon's:) the peaceful choice of all, Or good or ill humanity—welcoming the darker odds, the dross: —Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify—while the heart pants, life glows: These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships, Swell'd Washington's, Jefferson's, Lincoln's sails.

The more the methods of propaganda have been used to produce excitement, the greater will be the reaction, until in the end a quiet life comes to seem the only thing worth having. When, after a period of repose, the population again becomes capable of excitement, it will need a new stimulus, since all the old stimuli have become boring. Hence creeds which are used too intensively are transitory in their effects. In the thirteenth century, men's imaginations were dominated by three great men: the Pope, the Emperor, and the Sultan. The Emperor and the Sultan have disappeared, and the Pope's power is a pale shadow of what it was. In the sixteenth and early seventeeth centuries, the wars between Catholics and Protestants filled Europe, and all large-scale propaganda was in favour of one or other of the two creeds. Yet ultimate victory went to neither party, but, to those who thought the issues between them unimportant. Swift satirised the conflict in his wars of Big-Endians and Little-Endians; Voltaire's Huron, finding himself in prison with a Jansenist, thinks it equally silly of the government to demand his recantation and of him to refuse it. If the world, in the near future, becomes divided between Communists and Fascists, the final victory will go to neither, but to those who shrug their shoulders and say, like Candide, ‘cela est bien dit, mais il faut cultiver notre jardin’. The ultimate limit to the power of creeds is set by boredom, weariness, and love of ease.

There is at least one more important violation of expectation that is engendered by twelve-tone music. Recall that people are motivated to attend concerts because of the sweet anticipation of enjoyment. Most listeners have learned to expect music to evoke a state of pleasure. Apart from the failure to predict musical events, unsuspecting listeners who attend a concert of twelve-tone music may also feel betrayed by the fact that the music fails to evoke much pleasure. Their imaginative anticipation of musical enjoyment will lead to disappointment. No wonder audiences were so disturbed by Schoenberg's music.

Montreal October 1704 Temperature 55 degrees Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. “I will marry you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home.” Wind shifted the lace of Sarah’s gown and the auburn of one loose curl. “I love you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I’ve always loved you.” Tears came to Sarah’s eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. “Oh, Eben!” she whispered. “Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission.” “I’ll ask my father,” said Eben. “I’ll ask Father Meriel.” They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission? “My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.” Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me.” The Indians rather enjoyed being French allies one day and difficult neighbors the next. Lorette Indians might find this a fine way to stab a French soldier in the back without drawing blood. They would need Father Meriel. He could arrange anything if he chose; he had power among all the peoples. But he might say no, and so might Eben’s Indian family. Mercy translated what was going on for Nistenha and Snow Walker. “They want to get married,” she told them. “Isn’t it wonderful?” She couldn’t help laughing from the joy and the terror of it. Ransom would no longer be the first word in Sarah’s heart. Eben would be. Mercy said, “Eben asked her right here in the street, Snow Walker. He wants to save her from marriage to a French soldier she doesn’t want. He’s loved Sarah since the march.” The two Indians had no reaction. For a moment Mercy thought she must have spoken to them in English. Nistenha turned to walk away and Snow Walker turned with her. If Nistenha was not interested in Sarah and Eben’s plight, no Indian would be. Mercy called on her memory of every speech in every ceremony, every dignified phrase and powerful word. “Honored mother,” she said softly. “Honored sister. We are in need and we beg you to hear our petition.” Nistenha stopped walking, turned back and stared at her in amazement. Sarah and Eben and Snow Walker stared at her in amazement. Sam can build canoes, thought Mercy. I can make a speech. “This woman my sister and this man my brother wish to spend their lives together. My brother will need the generous permission of his Indian father. Already we know that my sister will be refused the permission of her French owners. We will need an ally to support us in our request. We will need your strength and your wisdom. We beseech you, Mother, that you stand by us and help us.” The city of Montreal swirled around them. Eben, property of an Indian father in Lorette; Sarah, property of a French family in Montreal; and Mercy, property of Tannhahorens, awaited her answer. “Your words fill me with pride, Munnunock,” said Nistenha softly. She reached into her shopping bundle. Slowly she drew out a fine French china cup, undoubtedly meant for the feast of Flying Legs. She held it for a moment, and then her stern face softened and she gave it to Eben. Indians sealed a promise with a gift. She would help them. From her bundle, Snow Walker took dangling silver earrings she must have bought for Mercy and handed them to Sarah. Because she knew that Sarah’s Mohawk was not good enough and that Eben was too stirred to speak, Mercy gave the flowery thanks required after such gifts. “God bless us,” she said to Sarah and Eben, and Eben said, “He has.

Many artists have assumed that such knowledge is unnecessary: it is intuition rather than knowledge that provides the foundation for artistic creation. I agree that intuition is essential for artistic production: in the absence of knowledge, our only recourse is to follow our intuitions. But intuition is not the foundation for artistic freedom or creative innovation. Quite the contrary. The more we rely of our intuitions, the more our behaviour may be dictated by unacknowledged social norms or biological predispositions. Intuition is, and has been, indispensable in the arts. But intuition needs to be supplemented by knowledge (or luck) if artists are to break through “Counterintuitive” barriers into new realms of artistic expression (preface)

Here,” Crispin continued, “the war is waged in the forest mostly, in the unmapped wilderness. Soldiers go into the forest and are never seen again. Settlers go in, entire families, and disappear. Sometimes it’s French troops, but mostly it’s the red savages raiding from the north, Huron and Abenaki, the French allies. The lucky ones are killed. You can read the stories of what the Indians do to prisoners, and hear more in the markets. Men hung over fires and roasted alive, fathers butchered alive in front of their children. They cut away scalps. Some say when a man loses his scalp, his spirit just spills out into the dirt and dries up,” he added in a hollow tone.

She sighed hard and shook her head, realized she was still staring at the same recipe card in her hand. She propped it against the monitor and read again, Elegant French Pork and Beans, by Carmine Grosz of Huron, South Dakota. She scanned the recipe, which called for haricot beans- a not inelegant bean, Olivia thought. Two kinds of sausage, two cuts of pork. Leeks. Well. This looked like a midwesternized cassoulet- definitely better than the usual "Casserole Corner" fare, which was largely made up of recipes containing endless and minute variations on the same hot dishes, issue after issue. For a couple of years there, chicken and broccoli had been all the rage: Chicken Broccoli Divan, Chicken Broccoli 'Divine', Chicken Broccoli Supreme ("Them's fightin' words," Ruby had told Vivian). Chicken Broccoli Surprise, Chicken Broccoli 'Rice' Surprise (David: "Where's the surprise? You've just listed all the ingredients in the title"). Elegant Company Chicken-Broccoli Casserole. "Which is the inelegant part," Olivia had asked over the phone from college, because she was studying ambiguous reference in her Linguistic Description of Modern English class, "the company or the casserole?

Wikipedia: Beaver Wars The Iroquois effectively destroyed several large tribal confederacies, including the Mohicans, Huron (Wyandot), Neutral, Erie, Susquehannock (Conestoga), and northern Algonquins, with the extreme brutality and exterminatory nature of the mode of warfare practiced by the Iroquois causing some historians to label these wars as acts of genocide committed by the Iroquois Confederacy.

Los hurones —dijo el gigante de ojos negros—son unos animalillos dorados que tienen cuatro patas y un hocico. Las patas de adelante les sirven para cavar sus ciudades subterráneas, para cazar ratas y para acariciar los alimentos y las crías. Las patas de atrás les sirven para apoyarse sobre la tierra, para levantarse sobre las hembras y para saltar. Las cuatro juntas les sirven para correr, caminar y bailar. El hocico les sirve para husmear, para sostener los bigotes, para comer y para mostrar que son benévolos y simpáticos. También tienen una cola peluda que les sirve para alimentar el orgullo. Justificado por otra parte, porque ¿qué sería de un hurón sin el orgullo de ser hurón? Su característica congénita es la prudencia pero con el tiempo van adquiriendo otra que es la sabiduría. Para ellos todo el mundo es rojo porque tienen los ojos de ese color, que es el más adecuado para los hurones. Les interesan muchísimo la ingeniería y la música. Tienen ciertos dones adivinatorios y les gustaría volar pero hasta ahora no han hecho el intento porque la prudencia se los impide. Son fieles y valientes. Y suelen conseguir lo que se proponen.

So I lean over carefully, and there, piled a foot high against the sides of the metal bin, are beat-up U.S. quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies. Next to the filling bin is another bin, a full bin of coins that fell from the pockets of Americans who had more pressing matters than loose change. According to Jack, an average junked U.S. automobile contains $1.65 in loose change when it’s shredded. If that’s right—and from what I see, I believe that it must be—then the 14 million cars scrapped in good years (good for automobile recyclers, at least) in the United States contain within them more than $20 million in cash just waiting to be recovered. Understandably, Huron Valley isn’t interested in revealing just how much money they recover from U.S. automobiles (they have a deal whereby they return the currency to the U.S. Treasury for a percentage of the original value), but David is willing to note that the coin recovery system has “paid for itself.” It occurs to me that Huron Valley has happened upon the most brilliant of businesses: one whose product is money itself! That is, rather than make something that needs to be marketed for money, Huron Valley just makes money.

The route home they’d chosen was her idea. She said she, Alison, and Katie had done it years ago when they’d spent a weekend at Mackinac Island. Within the course of one afternoon, they’d swum in Lake Huron, Lake Michigan, and Lake Superior, hitting three of the five Great Lakes.

Montreal October 1704 Temperature 55 degrees “Remember how in Deerfield there was nobody to marry? Remember how Eliza married an Indian? Remember how Abigail even had to go and marry a French fur trader without teeth?” Mercy had to laugh again. It was such a treat to laugh with English friends. “Your man doesn’t have teeth?” “Pierre has all his teeth. In fact, he’s handsome, rich and an army officer. But what am I to do about the marriage?” Sarah was not laughing. She was shivering. “I do not want that life or that language, Mercy, and above all, I do not want that man. If I repeat wedding vows, they will count. If I have a wedding night, it will be real. I will have French babies and they will be Catholic and I will live here all my life.” Sarah rearranged her French scarf in a very French way and Mercy thought how much clothing mattered; how changed they were by what they put on their bodies. “The Catholic church won’t make you,” said Mercy. “You can refuse.” “How? Pierre has brought his fellow officers to see me. His family has met me and they like me. They know I have no dowry, but they are being very generous about their son’s choice. If I refuse to marry Pierre, he and the French family with whom I live will be publicly humiliated. I won’t get a second offer of marriage after mistreating this one. The French family will make me a servant. I will spend my life waiting on them, curtseying to them, and saying ‘Oui, madame.’” “But surely ransom will come,” said Mercy. “Maybe it will. But what if it does not?” Mercy stared at her feet. Her leggings. Her moccasins. What if it does not? she thought. What if I spend my life in Kahnawake? “What if I stay in Montreal all my life?” demanded Sarah. “A servant girl to enemies of England.” The world asks too much of us, thought Mercy. But because she was practical and because there seemed no way out, she said, “Would this Frenchman treat you well?” Sarah shrugged as Eben had over the gauntlet, except that when Eben shrugged, he looked Indian, and when Sarah shrugged, she looked French. “He thinks I am beautiful.” “You are beautiful,” said Eben. He drew a deep breath to say something else, but Nistenha and Snow Walker arrived beside them. How reproachfully they looked at the captives. “The language of the people,” said Nistenha in Mohawk, “is sweeter to the ear when it does not mix with the language of the English.” Mercy flushed. This was why she had not been taken to Montreal before. She would flee to the English and be homesick again. And it was so. How she wanted to stay with Eben and Sarah! They were older and would take care of her…but no. None of the captives possessed the freedom to choose anything or take care of anyone. It turned out that Eben Nims believed otherwise. Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. “I will marry you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home.” Wind shifted the lace of Sarah’s gown and the auburn of one loose curl. “I love you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I’ve always loved you.” Tears came to Sarah’s eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. “Oh, Eben!” she whispered. “Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission.” “I’ll ask my father,” said Eben. “I’ll ask Father Meriel.” They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission? “My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.” Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me.

Montreal October 1704 Temperature 55 degrees None of the captives possessed the freedom to choose anything or take care of anyone. It turned out that Eben Nims believed otherwise. Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. “I will marry you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home.” Wind shifted the lace of Sarah’s gown and the auburn of one loose curl. “I love you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I’ve always loved you.” Tears came to Sarah’s eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. “Oh, Eben!” she whispered. “Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission.” “I’ll ask my father,” said Eben. “I’ll ask Father Meriel.” They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission? “My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.” Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me.

My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.” Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me.

The Connecticut River March 2, 1704 Temperature 10 degrees The Indians, it seemed, had paused here on their journey south from Canada to go hunting before the battle. Under the snow were stored the carcasses of twenty moose. Twenty! Eben had to count them himself before he could believe it, and even then, he could not believe it. Eben was no hunter. If he’d gotten one moose, it would have been pure luck. But for this war party to have killed twenty, dragged every huge carcass here so there would be feasting on the journey home--Eben was filled with respect as much as hunger. The Indians made several bonfires and built spits to cook entire haunches. They chopped the frozen moose meat, and Thorakwaneken and Tannhahorens sharpened dozens of thin sticks and shoved small cubes of moose meat onto these skewers. The women and children were each handed a stick to cook. The men were kept under watch, but at last their hands were freed and they too were allowed to eat. The prisoners were too hungry to wait for the meat to cook through and wolfed it down half raw. They ripped off strips for the littlest ones, who ate like baby birds: open mouths turned up, bolting one morsel, calling loudly for the next. When the captives had eaten until their stomachs ached, they dried stockings and moccasins and turned themselves in front of the flames, warming each side, while the Indians not on watch gathered around the largest bonfire, squatting to smoke their pipes and talk. The smell of their tobacco was rich and comforting. The wounded were put closest to the warmth, and hurt English found themselves sharing flames with hurt Mohawk and Abenaki and Huron. One of the Sheldon boys had frozen his toes. His Indian came over to look but shook his head. There was nothing to be done. Ebenezer Sheldon could limp to Canada or give up. “Guess I’ll limp,” said Ebenezer, grinning.

Creen los hurones, como todos los pueblos iroqueses, que el sueño transfigura las cosas más triviales y las convierte en símbolos al tocarlas con los dedos del deseo. Creen que el sueño es el lenguaje de los deseos no realizados y llaman "ondinnonk" a los secretos deseos del alma, que la vigilia ignora. Los "ondinnonk" asoman en los viajes que hace el alma mientras duerme el cuerpo.

Talon rocked her against his chest, cradling her as one would a feverish child. “Shhh, shhh,” he soothed in Algonquian. “He is not dead.” She opened her eyes, and he knew from her glazed expression that she wasn’t seeing his face, but the haunting shadows of the spirit world. “Nuwi,” he coaxed. “Come back to me.” He dared not handle her roughly. Did not the shamans speak of dreaming souls that broke free from sleepers to drift away into the spirit world and never return? “Nuwi, Becca.” She whimpered and slipped her arms around his neck. He felt the shudders rack her body as she clung to him. “He’s not dead,” she whispered hoarsely. “No,” he repeated in English. “He is not dead.” She took a deep breath and her eyes closed. Her trembling lessened and color flowed into her cheeks. This time when her lashes parted, she saw him. She stiffened and gave a fearful cry, striking at him with her hands and trying to break free. “Ku,” he said. “No—do not be afraid. I will not harm you.” He released her and she tore loose from his arms and scrambled away until she reached the walls of the cave. “Do not be afraid,” he said impatiently. “You . . . you . . .” She gasped, clutching her arms against her body. “You cried out,” he explained, feeling foolish. “You had a dream.” “Yes.” Her voice was dry and rasping, her eyes wide with alarm. “You were very loud,” he chided. “I thought your screeching would bring the Huron.” “You . . . you touched me,” she said accusingly. “I touched you—as I would a terrified child or a startled horse.” “A horse?” He noticed spots of high color in her fair-skinned, oval face, a startling contrast to her vivid blue eyes and dark arching brows. Her fear was quickly turning to indignation. He gazed intensely at her delicate English features. Her nose was thin, sprinkled with freckles and slightly tilted at the tip. Without realizing that he was doing so, he smiled. Such a foolish nose for a woman—he didn’t think he had ever seen one quite like it. Her mouth was full, her lips plump and red as the first wild strawberries in May. “How dare you compare me to a horse?” she demanded hotly. “A horse?” He chuckled, remembering his words. “A horse was not the best comparison,” he conceded. “I may be your prisoner, but I have rights.” His mood shifted. “No,” he said sharply, remembering too how she had fitted neatly into his arms. “No. A prisoner has no rights—none but those her captor gives her. You are the wife of my enemy. Expect nothing from me, and be grateful for what I give.

Commander Huron, I should like to inquire after one of your flight officers.” “Would that be Ensign Kennakris, ma’am?” “Do you always answer the question like that?” “Well, ma’am, she does have a way of getting people’s attention.” “I’ve been told she scares the living shit out of people.” “That’s one of the ways she gets their attention.

Realizing that she was clad only in the fur, she pulled it tight around her, trying to cover her legs, her shoulders, and her breasts all at the same time. “You monster!” she said. “You promised me you’d call out before you came back. You tricked me.” She grabbed her shift and retreated to the shadows in the back of the cave. “I did call you,” he said. “You were sleeping like a bear in winter. I killed the turkey, plucked it, and cooked it. Still you slept. I think Simon Brandt has a lazy woman for a wife.” Rebecca sputtered, too angry for words, as she struggled to get into her shift without dropping the wolfskin. She did notice that not only was she dry, but her garment was dry as well. She had been asleep, and not just for a few moments. “You seem to have lost your dress,” he said, “so I brought you the Huron’s French coat instead. I think it will fit you if you tie his belt around your waist.” He reached over and held up a blue men’s military jacket. “You expect me to wear a dead man’s coat?” “You will wear it, woman, or I will take your last garment and leave you only the wolf pelt to wear.” “Go to hell!” she shouted. “If the English are right about their god, I will. But what if the Shawnee are right, and you are wrong. Have you thought of that?” “No.” “Think of it while you eat my turkey and sit at my fire. Perhaps it will help you to be properly grateful to a man who has gone to great lengths to keep you from harm.” “I’ll never be grateful to you.” He smiled. “But you will eat my turkey.” She nodded. “Only to have enough strength to live long enough to see you hanged for the savage you are.

Lake Huron is now as much of a wasteland as the surrounding area.

But it isn’t the fun of DIY invention, urban exploration, physical danger, and civil disorder that the Z-Boys enjoyed in 1976. It is fun within serious limits, and for all of its thrills it is (by contrast) scripted. And rather obedient. The fact that there are public skateparks and high-performance skateboards signals progress: America has embraced this sport, as it did bicycles in the nineteenth century. Towns want to make skating safe and acceptable. The economy has more opportunity to grow. America is better off for all of this. Yet such government and commercial intervention in a sport that was born of radical liberty means that the fun itself has changed; it has become mediated. For the skaters who take pride in their flashy store-bought equipment have already missed the Z-Boys’ joke: Skating is a guerrilla activity. It’s the fun of beating, not supporting, the system. P. T. Barnum said it himself: all of business is humbug. How else could business turn a profit, if it didn’t trick you with advertising? If it didn’t hook you with its product? This particular brand of humbug was perfected in the late 1960s, when merchandise was developed and marketed and sold to make Americans feel like rebels. Now, as then, customers always pay for this privilege, and purveyors keep it safe (and generally clean) to curb their liability. They can’t afford customers taking real risks. Plus it’s bad for business to encourage real rebellion. And yet, marketers know Americans love fun—they have known this for centuries. And they know that Americans, especially kids, crave autonomy and participation, so they simulate the DIY experience at franchises like the Build-A-Bear “workshops,” where kids construct teddy bears from limited options, or “DIY” restaurants, where customers pay to grill their own steaks, fry their own pancakes, make their own Bloody Marys. These pay-to-play stores and restaurants are, in a sense, more active, more “fun,” than their traditional competition: that’s their big selling point. But in both cases (as Barnum knew) the joke is still on you: the personalized bear is a standardized mishmash, the personalized food is often inedible. As Las Vegas knows, the house always wins. In the history of radical American fun, pleasure comes from resistance, risk, and participation—the same virtues celebrated in the “Port Huron Statement” and the Digger Papers, in the flapper’s slang and the Pinkster Ode. In the history of commercial amusement, most pleasures for sale are by necessity passive. They curtail creativity and they limit participation (as they do, say, in a laser-tag arena) to a narrow range of calculated surprises, often amplified by dazzling technology. To this extent, TV and computer screens, from the tiny to the colossal, have become the scourge of American fun. The ubiquity of TV screens in public spaces (even in taxicabs and elevators) shows that such viewing isn’t amusement at all but rather an aggressive, ubiquitous distraction. Although a punky insurgency of heedless satire has stung the airwaves in recent decades—from equal-opportunity offenders like The Simpsons and South Park to Comedy Central’s rabble-rousing pundits, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert—the prevailing “fun” of commercial amusement puts minimal demands on citizens, besides their time and money. TV’s inherent ease seems to be its appeal, but it also sends a sobering, Jumbotron-sized message about the health of the public sphere.

Perhaps the most prominent young radical in the early 1960s was Tom Hayden, a University of Michigan student who had worked with SNCC in 1961. Raised a Catholic, Hayden was a serious thinker with a commitment to elevating the spirit and improving human relationships in the United States. In 1962 he emerged as chief author of a major position paper of the SDS, the Port Huron Statement.

Look to the Southeast, where, as Taylor has noted, “colonial societies sustained a slave system more oppressive than anything practiced in Europe” and “the slave-owners relied on Indians to catch runaways.” There, too, the native groups, descended from Mississippian societies, were far more hierarchical and autocratically ruled than the Algonkian- and Iroquoian-speaking groups in the Northeast. As Gallay has documented, indigenous societies cooperated fully with the slave-trading system, sending war captives to colonists for sale overseas. In the Northeast, by contrast, the Wendat (Huron) and Haudenosaunee either killed or, more common, adopted captives; involuntary servitude, though it occurred, was strikingly rarer. On the map, the division line between slave and non-slave societies occurs in Virginia, broadly anticipating the Mason-Dixon line that later split slave states from free. The repeated pattern doubtless has to do with geography—southeastern climate and soil favor plantation crops like tobacco and cotton. And southern colonists’ preference for slavery presumably reflected their different ethnic, class, and religious backgrounds. But

Soon after Cortez conquered Mexico, the French explorer Jacques Cartier cautiously sailed his ships up America’s North Atlantic coast. In 1534 his expedition explored the coast of Canada, and like Cortez, he also wanted to venture inland in search of treasures and new cities. To prepare for the excursion into the interior, he kidnapped Taignoagny and Agaya, two coastal natives whom he took back to France with him to teach them to speak French. Cartier returned in the spring of the following year with the interpreters, whom he used to guide his ships up the St. Lawrence River to the Huron territory of Chief Donnaconna and on to the Huron village of Hochelaga, which became Montreal.

Once Magua appeared disposed to make another and a final effort to revenge his losses; but, abandoning his intention as soon as demonstrated, he leaped into a thicket of bushes, through which he was followed by his enemies, and suddenly entered the mouth of the cave already known to the reader. Hawkeye, who had only forborne to fire in tenderness to Uncas, raised a shout of success, and proclaimed aloud, that now they were certain of their game. The pursuers dashed into the long and narrow entrance, in time to catch a glimpse of the retreating forms of the Hurons. Their passage through the natural galleries and subterraneous apartments of the cavern was preceded by the shrieks and cries of hundreds of women and children. The place, seen by its dim and uncertain light, appeared like the shades of the infernal regions, across which unhappy ghosts and savage demons were flitting in multitudes.

He mistake a Mohican in his paint for a Huron! You would be as likely to mistake the white-coated grenadiers of Montcalm for the scarlet jackets of the ‘Royal Americans’,” returned the scout. “No,

On their arrival at the encampment of his people, Magua, in obedience to a policy seldom departed from, separated his prisoners. Cora had been sent to a tribe that temporarily occupied an adjacent valley, though David was too ignorant of the customs and history of the natives to be able to declare anything satisfactory concerning their name or character. He only knew that they had not engaged in the late expedition against William Henry; that, like the Hurons themselves,

The Indian smiled grimly, and extended one hand, in sign of a willingness to exchange, while with the other, he flourished the babe over his head, holding it by the feet as if to enhance the value of the ransom. “Here — here — there — all — any — everything!” exclaimed the breathless woman; tearing the lighter articles of dress from her person, with ill-directed and trembling fingers; “take all, but give me my babe!” The savage spurned the worthless rags, and perceiving that the shawl had already become a prize to another, his bantering but sullen smile changing to a gleam of ferocity, he dashed the head of the infant against a rock, and cast its quivering remains to her very feet. For an instant, the mother stood, like a statue of despair, looking wildly down at the unseemly object, which had so lately nestled in her bosom and smiled in her face; and then she raised her eyes and countenance towards heaven, as if calling on God to curse the perpetrator of the foul deed. She was spared the sin of such a prayer; for, maddened at his disappointment, and excited at the sight of blood, the Huron mercifully drove his tomahawk into her own brain. The mother sank under the blow, and fell, grasping at her child, in death, with the same engrossing love that had caused her to cherish it when living.

The house phone rang loudly, interrupting her thoughts. She thought that it was Mizan and she rushed to answer it. “Hello?” “Hello, this is Warden Christopher Hill at Huron Valley Women’s Correctional Facility. I’m trying to reach the daughter of Justine Atkins ... a Ms. Raven Atkins.” “Yeah, this is she,” Raven responded. “What’s going on? Is my mother in trouble?” “No, miss. I regret to inform you that your mother committed suicide last night,” he stated. Raven dropped the phone, sending it crashing to the floor. I was just there yesterday. Why would she do this?

wrote, “If a Huron’s soul could have inherited Montesquieu’s brain, Montesquieu would still create.” The native North American was an Enlightenment paradigm of the savage, yet if his soul were joined to Montesquieu’s brain, then one of the era’s greatest thinkers would, for intellectual purposes at least, be still alive. It did not matter that the soul and body were those of a “primitive,” provided the brain was the philosopher’s own. In short, the conviction that the brain is the only organ indispensable for personal identity emerged independently or, at most, marginally connected to empirical neuroscientific advances. Bonnet’s 1760 statement about Montesquieu and the Huron declares exactly the same thing as Puccetti’s aphorism of 1969, “Where goes a brain, there goes a person,” or Gazzaniga’s confident assertion of 2005, “you are your brain.” A good number of twentieth- and twenty-first-century (neuro)scientists and (neuro)philosophers claim that their convictions about the self are based on neuroscientific data. That may be so for them personally. Historically, however, things happened the other way around: Brainhood predated reliable neuroscientific discoveries and has all the appearance of having been a motivating factor of brain research. As it advanced, this research legitimized and reinforced the brainhood ideology.

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It became sport, which is itself a form of sacrifice,” writes Sansone. “For only if sport is a form of sacrifice can we explain its ritual associations. There is no other plausible reason to account for the fact that the Hurons played a game of lacrosse in order to influence the weather for the benefit of their crops. It is only because they engaged in ritual sacrifice that natives of the Sudan hold wrestling matches at the time of sowing and harvesting. In Homer’s Iliad the hero Achilles honors the death of his companion Patroclus with an elaborate funeral that consists of various kinds of sacrifice: hair offering; holocausts of sheep and cattle; libations of oil, honey, and wine; slaughter of horses and dogs; human sacrifice and athletic contests.”3 Once the ritual expenditure of energy was decoupled from the hunt, it didn’t especially matter how that energy was squandered. The rules and forms could proliferate a thousand ways, to accommodate the terrain and the materials at hand. The rules and conventions could morph and become subject to contention, debate, wagering, and technical innovation

I belong bodily to the earth I'm just wearing old bones from those that came first There are many more flames when mine is gone They will build me no shrines and sing me no songs

their death by starting a grass fire. The escaping animals would flounder in a swamp or rush headlong off a cliff, as at Ulm Pishkun, outside of Great Falls, Montana, only to plummet to a horrible and lingering death from broken bones and damaged internal organs. And what about the natural respect for life and the “peaceful” Indians? We hear of Custer’s cruelty and murderous rampages against helpless and innocent Native Americans, but Indian wars between Iroquois and Huron, Comanche and Chickasaw were equally vicious

There are many important things in life worth worrying about. There are even some aspects of music that warrant thoughtful consideration from conscientious musicians. If we take the research seriously, chordal-tone doubling is not one of them.

The only monsters in this world are men and myths.

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Nelson Richard DeMille was born in New York City on August 23, 1943 to Huron and Antonia (Panzera) DeMille, then moved with his parents to Long Island.

When we see something we want to eat, when we receive praise, and even when we hug our children, our mouths literally water,” says Huron. In any type of pleasure state, our mouths produce more saliva. Our tongue moves more fluidly within the mucous membranes of our mouth, creating what Huron calls “oral wetness cues.” Oral wetness is a subtle and involuntary reflex; however, it broadcasts our emotional state.

Perhaps the single most important lesson from research on laughing is that laughter is predominantly a social response. Robert Provine estimates that people are thirty times more likely to laugh in the presence of another person than when they are alone. Field studies have established that most laughter is not in response to humor. Social inferiors laugh more in the presence of their social superiors. Social inferiors are also more likely to laugh at the instigation of social superiors than vice versa. For those of us who love to laugh, the scientific research on laughter seems depressing: the principal function of laughter seems to be to dissipate social fears.

I said life without end wouldn't have any meaning Journey to death is the point of our being Well the point of my life is to be with you baby But there ain't enough time in the life that they gave me The Man Who Lives Forever

Forever together, forever's a lie The Man Who Lives Forever

Years have gone but the pain is the same I have passed my days by the sound of your name Well they say that you're gone and that I should move on I wonder how do they know, baby? Death is a wall but it can't be the end You were my protector and my best friend In The Wind

Don't turn away, don't tell me that we're not the same We face the fire together, brothers 'til the end Brother

I said we're all gonna die but I'll never believe it/ I love this world and I don't want to leave it/ Said that death is a deal that you cannot refuse/ But I love you girl and I don't want to lose you

Yes I know that love is like ghosts Oh, few have seen it, but everybody talks Love Like Ghosts

Here, it’ll be easy to track and I don’t have to deceive Huron about where we’re going. Of trying to fool someone or kidnapping a tyrannosaur, I’ll kidnap the tyrannosaur.

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The final version of the manifesto, known as the Port Huron Statement, was a sixty-six page, single-spaced pamphlet that both described an emerging movement -- the New Left -- and sought to shape it. The document was up front about its origins. The opening sentence read, 'We are people of this generation, bred in at least modest comfort, housed now in universities, looking uncomfortably to the world we inherit.' The tone of the document was almost spiritual. It celebrated human independence and authenticity, arguing that reason, freedom, and love could overcome loneliness, estrangement, ad isolation. As Kirkpatrick Sale wrote in a sympathetic history of the SDS, the statement 'was unabashedly middle class, concerned with poverty of vision rather than poverty of life.

Yes I know that love is like ghosts Oh, few have seen it, but everybody talks