What Cheers?

Most outsiders visiting Cree communities around Wînipekw (aka James Bay) have heard or have been taught the Cree salutation ‘wâciye’ without any mention of its origins or history. It may surprise many to know that this salutation is actually of English origin and that it has not always enjoyed such a widespread distribution. Its popularity has led to the decline of other salutations in the Cree language, leading even some young Cree people looking puzzled when they hear some of these other words. In this blogpost we will explore the history of Cree salutations.

The word ‘wâciye’ can be heard in all Cree communities around Wînipekw and is typically spelled in a variety of ways, depending on the type of orthography and dialect. In syllabics, it is spelled either ᐙᒋᔦ  or ᐙᒋᔮ, the latter being the dialectal form used in the northern east coast communities. Some may even spell it ᐙᒋᔮᐦ in the northern dialect, following a more recent trend of marking all final aspirations in Cree. Using the alphabet, the word may also be seen spelled as ‘wâchiye,’ ‘waachiye,’ ‘wâchiyâ,’ ‘wâchiyâh,’ ‘waachiyaa,’ or ‘waachiyaah.’ There are of course some flagrant misspellings, but these will be ignored for the purposes of this post.

The word itself is actually an English borrowing. Watkins, an Anglican missionary, wrote in his Cree dictionary of 1865 that “The expression, ‘what cheer?’ has been adopted by the Indians and is used both at meeting and at parting, answering in the former case to ‘how do you do?’ and in the latter ‘good bye.’ It is generally doubled, ‘what cheer? what cheer?'” He also wrote that the English expression is “the common seaman’s salutation” and that it had become “thoroughly naturalized into Cree.” He even provides us with the word’s plural form, ‘wâciyekw,’ spelling it “whatcheâk” in his dictionary.

The English expression “what cheer” appears to have a continued existence in English as well, albeit in contracted forms. The Oxford English Dictionary provides us with two entries, “wotcher” and “wotcha,” stating their etymologies as “late 19th century: corruption of what cheer?” The words are therein glossed as informal British greetings.

Interestingly, the use of this word in Cree, although entirely naturalized by the mid-18th century, has not always extended outside of the coastal communities. Inlanders can often recall the first time they heard the word, usually in the context of meeting coasters. The word appears to have begun spreading inland in the 1970s, a time of social upheaval as our people negotiated the JBNQA and eventually settled in our contemporary communities. For inlanders, the more popular salutation has been ‘kwey,’ not ‘wâciye.’

‘Kwey’ has generally enjoyed a much broader distribution than ‘wâciye,’ being used in Cree dialects such as Southern East Cree, Atikamekw, and Western Innu. Aside from Cree, the word is also used in the Anishinabe dialects spoken in Quebec, as well as in the Eastern Abenaki languages. This has led many to suggest it is a loadword from Anishinabe, but the fact remains that only the dialects spoken in the region that straddles the Ottawa river and Abitibi Lake use this term. Further west, the word is replaced by ‘aanii(n),’ literally meaning ‘how.’ This then begs the question, where does ‘kwey’ come from?

The earliest mention of ‘kwey’ in a Cree language document appears to be in Charles Arnaud’s 1856 manuscript dictionary of the dialect spoken at Essipit and Pessamit. Arnaud, an Oblate missionary, lists the word as “Bonjour Kuaï Kuaï.” Earlier manuscript dictionaries curiously omit the word, suggesting it may in fact have been borrowed from another language between the time of the early manuscript dictionaries and Arnaud’s time. In fact, the earliest textual examples we have of this word are from the Jesuit Relations, but they do not refer to the Cree language. Two such examples of the word show up in 1636, both reported by the Jesuit Jean de Brébeuf when speaking of the Wyandot people. Despite the loss of their language due to the epidemics, war, and relocation, their close relatives the Mohawk continue to use this word as a greeting in the community of Kahnawake. The word may therefore actually be a Iroquoian loanword that spread into Algonquian communities after the displacement of the Wyandot to Quebec City in the mid-17th century.

So if both ‘wâciye’ and ‘kwey’ are loan words, what was the original Cree salutation? The Plains Cree dialect appears to have preserved the original word, spelled “atamiskawêw” in Arok Wolvengrey’s dictionary of Plains Cree, published in 2011. Being a verb, it can be translated as ‘he or she greets him or her.’ In fact, the word is present in literary sources from dialects spoken around Wînipekw in the mid-19th century, including Bible translations and even Watkins’ dictionary mentioned above. It also shows up in early manuscript dictionaries, including one from the 1680s, compiled by Antoine Silvy, a Jesuit stationed in the Saguenay region who is also known for having travelled all the way to the region of present day Waskaganish. In the Jesuit Bonaventure Fabvre’s dictionary from the 1690s, the phrase “kit atamiskâtin” is found, followed by the gloss “je te salue.” This then appears to have been a widespread expression that has fallen out of use as ‘wâciye’ and ‘kwey’ increasingly gain popularity. But they are not the only words used nowadays.

ᑮ ᐊᑕᒥᔅᑲᐌᐤ

Luke 1:40, “And entered into the house of Zacharias, and saluted Elisabeth.” (1876, Moose Cree translation)

In Southern East Cree and certain Innu dialects, the French word ‘bonjour’ has been adopted and is pronounced as ‘pôšow.’ Depending on the orthography used, it can also be seen spelled as ‘pûshû,’ ‘puushuu,’ or ‘pushu.’ This salutation has also been turned into verbs that replace the original word mentioned above. In Southern East Cree the verb is ‘pôšôhkawew’ while in the Innu dialects it is ‘pushukateu.’ These words generally mean ‘he or she greets him or her,’ but are sometimes interpreted as referring to handshaking, which has always been part of the traditional Cree salutation. In the same way, ‘wâciye’ has also been turned into a verb of the same meaning along the coast of Wînipekw. Here the verb is ‘wâciyemew.’

Whether one uses ‘wâciye,’ ‘kwey,’ or ‘pôšow,’ one should understand that all three of these loanwords are now part and parcel of the Cree language. They are not English, Wyandot, or French words anymore when pronounced in the Cree manner. In fact, the ability to accommodate loanwords, to a certain extent, is a sign of linguistic vitality. The English language would not be what it is today without its plethora of loanwords, including words of Algonquian origin such as ‘skunk,’ ‘toboggan,’ ‘moccasin,’ and ‘pow-wow.’ What is most important is that we simply continue speaking our language. And with that, I salute you all with a wâciye, kwey, and pôšow!


Otters & Clouds

Today, on a popular social media site, a picture of a cloud seen over Waswanipi was posted. The comment accompanying the picture read, “Hmmm, more weird looking clouds.” Here is the picture.


“Hmmm, more weird looking clouds,” by Nadia Happyjack Cooper. Shared here with permission.

Granted, these clouds do look kind of weird, they are quite common. In the field of meteorology, this type of cloud is called by the Latin term altocumulus undulatus.

When faced with the need for highly specific words, the English language often depends on Latin. The Cree language, on the other hand, is properly equipped to describe highly detailed features of the natural world, including clouds. This is largely due to a grammatical feature called polysynthesis, which I spoke at length about in an earlier post. In the Cree language of Waswanipi, the altocumulus undulatus cloud is known by the following term:


This word is a beautiful example of polysynthesis, so let us break it down. The word ᐸᐦᑯᓈᒋᑴᐗᔅᑾᓐ is an inanimate intransitive verb (i.e., a VII) that features two medials built on the stem of a transitive animate verb (i.e., a VTA). The stem on which the word is built is the following:


This stem means, “to skin an animal.” To that stem a medial is attached, referring to the animal being skinned. In the case, the animal is an otter and the medial is as follows:


This medial is derived, through a normal process of medial derivation, from the noun ᓂᒋᒄ. Together, these two components form a new stem, meaning “to skin an otter.” The stem is as follows:


To this stem, another medial is attached. This one means “cloud” and has the following form:


This medial is derived from the noun ᐗᔅᒄ, a word that is now obsolete in Waswanipi. This medial, however, cannot form a new stem without the addition of a final. The final here adds no meaning to the word, but rather helps form a VII verb. The final is the following:


Together, these components come to mean “there is an otter-skinning cloud.” This may be a strange description for anyone not accustomed to seeing otters being skinned, but for those who have the choice of word immediately becomes obvious.

When skinning an otter with a bone scraper, the skinner will simultaneously strike the subcutaneous tissues while pulling the skin away from the area being struck. Doing so repeatedly creates a lumpy texture in the otter’s fat, reminiscent of the aforementioned cloud.

While many of us nowadays tend to imagine puppies and kittens in the shapes of clouds, evidently hunters and trappers see things quite differently! So the next time you see an altocumulus undulatus you can help keep a beautiful and meaningful word in use by calling it what our people have called it for centuries, ᐸᐦᑯᓈᒋᑴᔅᑾᓐ.

ᓂᔥᑌᔅ ᒞᓐ

ᒋ ᓂᐹᓐ ᐋ, ᒋ ᓂᐹᓐ ᐋ
ᓂᔥᑌᔅ ᒞᓐ, ᓂᔥᑌᔅ ᒞᓐ
ᒉᒋᔐᐹ ᒪᑗᐦᑎᓐ, ᒉᒋᔐᐹ ᒪᑗᐦᑎᓐ
ᑎᓐᒃ ᑖᓐᒃ ᑣᓐᒃ

Syllabics Chart

I designed the following chart as a tool to convert the Cree alphabet into syllabics, and vice versa. Aside from a few important changes, it is based on traditional syllabics charts. This version features the letters used in the standard alphabetic orthography and the syllabics used in the eastern syllabic orthographies. The terms cardinal and ordinal refer here to the orientation of the individual syllabic characters. They are included here as a pedagogical tool, in line with my use of these terms in the syllabics lessons published on this blog. The third category, listed here as supplemental, groups together characters that were originally designed to represent sounds from non-Cree languages, as when transcribing English names.

Screen Shot 2018-04-07 at 9.00.45 PM.png

Note that the long vowels require diacritics in both orthographies to distinguish them from their corresponding short vowels, making the conversion from one orthography to the other effortless. Also note that the long vowel e does not require a diacritic as it does not have to be distinguished from a corresponding short vowel. This simplifies any orthographic conversion as its corresponding syllabic series has traditionally forgone the use of a diacritic as well.

A feature of the alphabetic orthography is that it is not based on English or French phonetics. Rather, it is based on the actual sound structure of the Cree language. As such, every Cree sound is represented by only one letter, making the conversion from the alphabet to syllabics that much easier. For example, the Cree sound variously pronounced as /tsh/, dzh/, /ts/ or even /tz/ is always represented by the single letter c rather than the awkward and variable use of tsh, ts, tch, ch, g, and even j, all of which derive from English and French phonetics. Similarly, the Cree long vowel pronounced as /i:/ is written as ī (or alternatively î), rather than using the English based e, eeea, or even ii. As a final example, the Cree sound that varies between /k/ and /g/ is always spelled as k, rather than drawing from English phonetics and misleadingly using k and g for what is really only one sound in Cree. A word, therefore, commonly written as meegwetch, meegwech, miigwetch, or even miigwech, is consistently written as mīkwec in the Cree alphabetic orthography and ᒦᑴᒡ in syllabics.

Spelling in a consistent manner is an important requirement for literacy. Not doing so creates barriers for language learners and hinders the progression of literacy for a language that is already at risk of being lost in many communities across Cree country. For those wishing to learn how to read and write in syllabics, lessons can be found here.

A Cree Knock-knock Joke

The creativity of children never ceases to amaze me. Linguistically, they find ways to play with the languages they speak that make us laugh while simultaneously saying much about where they are from. Here’s a funny example I once overheard from young children playing together in my home.

Knock knock!
 Who’s there?
 Scooby-doo who?
Enh! You just said “doo who!”

Sadly, the comedic value of this joke only reaches the few Cree communities where doo who, properly spelled tôhow or ᑑᐦᐅᐤ, is known. I also expect some of these kids would have been scolded by their parents for using a word that refers to male genitalia. As a linguist, however, I could not help but laugh at what was a great example of humorous code-switching!

Polysynthesis & the Longest Cree Word Ever

The Cree language can be likened to the world’s most mechanically intricate clocks that, despite their innumerable moving parts, display time using only two or three hands. Similarly, our beautiful language is built on a rich, but incredibly complex, grammatical structure, and yet boasts only a simple repertoire of vowels and consonants. In this way, our language sounds deceptively simple, but its grammar has thwarted many in their attempts to learn to speak it.

Certainly, numerous factors aside from grammar conspire against the would-be Cree speakers. Inconsistent orthographies, sparse learning materials, dialectal differences, and even idiolectal preferences are complicit. But there is one grammatical feature that is so unfamiliar to speakers of European languages that it usually escapes their attention, only to repeatedly frustrate their efforts at speaking with any degree of fluency. This feature is called polysynthesis.

Polysynthesis is the process of stringing together many morphemes, or word-parts, into long words that would be typically expressed as sentences in non-polysynthetic languages. What better way then to illustrate this process than by presenting here what many say is the longest Cree word ever?

The word you are about to see was posted on a social media page dedicated to the Cree language. It is allegedly known by many elderly people in communities along the east coast of James Bay and is here presented in the northern dialect. Prepare to run out of breath trying to read this aloud.

ᒌ ᐅᑳᔅᒋᓈᐧᐋᐦᔮᐧᐋᓂᐧᐃᑎᐦᑭᐙᑭᓂᐎᐦᑖᐙᑯᐱᓐ

It was evident from the comment section on this social media site that this word stumped many Cree-speakers. So by way of illustration, let us break this word down to reveal its actual meaning. While doing so, the grammatical process of polysynthesis will be made abundantly clear.

The length of this Cree word can be partially explained by its inflexions. In other words, it is a verb that has been conjugated by the addition of a prefix and a suffix. The prefix is here separated by a space, but some people prefer to place it next to the word, making it appear even longer. The inflexions in this word are highlighted here for your convenience.


The prefix here is a simple past tense marker (some would argue it is a perfective aspect marker, but we can overlook this for the sake of simplicity). The suffix here is a third person plural dubitative preterit marker. It conveys an event involving a group of people that we infer to have occurred, but did not witness ourselves.

Another segment in this word is a derivational morpheme that conveys a passive voice. A passive voice is used in verbs where the subject undergoes the action of the verb. In English, the passive voice would be used to say things like “he is seen” or “she is appreciated.” The passive is highlighted here in blue.


This passive voice tells us that that something is being done to this group of people. In other words, they are not active participants in this event, but rather, recipients. Let’s keep working at this word!

The next segment is a derivational morpheme that contains both a prefix and a suffix which conveys the meaning of providing something for others. It is here highlighted in red.


So we now know that something was provided for a group of people in the past, but the speaker only infers this information as he or she was not a witness to the event. A little more work and we shall soon find out what they received!

The following segment is a derivational morpheme that literally means “pack,” “bag,” or “container.” It is here highlighted in green.


The speaker is therefore telling us that it is inferred that a group of people in the past received a package containing something. Shall we keep going?

The morpheme referring to the contents of the package is underlined below.


This morpheme can also exist as a word on its own, as follows:


This word means “spatchcocked grouse.” But even it itself is a word composed of smaller parts! In fact, it is a compound consisting of a suffix referring to grouse and an initial segment that literally refers to game split open from the back and deboned for smoking or grilling. On its own, it is used to refer to fish, but with the suffix it comes to refer to grouse. Here is the root of it all, the word that refers to fish split from the back for smoking or roasting:


It would be remiss of me not to mention that even this word is a noun derived from an initial verb composed of two parts, but I digress too much. Let us return then to the original word now that we have broken it down into its different segments.


This Cree word can be translated as follows (the translation is colour coded to match the associated parts of the Cree word):

They were presumably given a package of spatchcocked grouse.

As has been shown, this one Cree word (two if we consider the prefix a separate word) requires the use of nine English words to be properly translated. This then illustrates beautifully what polysynthesis means. It is so foreign to English-speakers that it must be explicitly explained if they ever wish to acquire any fluency in the Cree language. But do not despair! The Cree language obeys strict rules that allow speakers to formulate these kinds of words. With a bit of practice, one can learn how to do so and amaze fellow Cree-speakers! Perhaps then, a longer word could even be composed to earn the title of the longest Cree word ever.


Geraldine Govender: Heritage Award for Excellence


On February 23 in Toronto, Geraldine Govender accepted the Lieutenant Governor’s Ontario Heritage Award for Excellence in Conservation for her role in making the Moose Cree dictionary possible. As the director for the Department of Language & Culture at Moose Cree First Nation, Geraldine’s role in building support for the local language revitalization project has been crucial for keeping the dictionary project going.

Geraldine took to social media that day to acknowledge her nomination by Stan Kapashesit and to thank all those involved in the production of this important work on the Cree language.

A third edition of the Dictionary of Moose Cree is presently being prepared. Contributors to the dictionary project since 2012 are listed below:

Project Manager:
Geraldine Govender

Kevin Brousseau
Vincent Collette (contributor to the first edition)

Expert Speakers:
Clarence Cheechoo
Susan Cheechoo
William Cheechoo
Agnes Corston
Hilda Jeffries
Gertie Johnstone
Eva Lazarus
Mary Linklater
Jane Louttit (1922-2013)
Eleanor McLeod
Stella McLeod
Caroline Trapper (1929-2017)
Daisy Turner (1918-2017)
George Quachegan


The following blogpost was originally published on October 13, 2014 on another blog of mine. Save for a few typographical modifications, the post is presented here in its original form.

Only recently have I noticed how Waswanipi’s community emblem was changed from its original design. This must have happened years ago, but somehow it managed to escape my attention. I can distinctly remember the original emblem from my youth, with its torch suspended over the water. But the torch has now been replaced by the moon, which appears to be a better fit for the common, but erroneous, translation of ‘light on the water.’ For those not familiar with the design of the original emblem, here it is on a pin.


The above emblem evidently pointed to the meaning of the name, which must have naturally been understood by those who designed it. The name, spelled Wâswânipiy using a standard orthography, literally translates into ‘torch-fishing lake,’ in reference to a traditional method of luring fish with light, hence the central position of the torch in the community’s emblem. The meaning, however, has largely faded into obscurity as the practice it describes was abandoned, probably in favour of more productive harvesting methods. Already a distant memory in the minds of elders in the 1970s, the practice of fishing by torchlight was eventually forgotten by the community who instead adopted a simplified “light on the water” translation for the community’s name. The result is a new emblem where the moon figures centrally over a lake, obscuring the original meaning of the name.


The word wâswânipiy is composed of wâswân, meaning ‘torch-fishing place’ and …piy, a contracted form of nipiy used in reference to lakes (examples include mašcekopiy, ‘a pond surrounded by muskeg’ and amiskopiy, ‘a beaver pond’). Wâswân is itself a noun derived from the verb stem wâswe-, meaning ‘to fish by torchlight using a leister.’ In the not-so-distant past, this traditional fishing method was common throughout Cree country. The word is recorded as early as the late 1600s in manuscript dictionaries of the Cree language compiled by Jesuits Antoine Silvy and Bonaventure Fabvre. In the early 1700s, the Jesuit Pierre-Michel Laure again notes the word, translating it as ‘je vais au flambeau pêcher…’ But it is the Jesuit Paul LeJeune’s description from the Relations in the earlier 1600s that deserve attention. The following is a translation of LeJeune’s description, taken from page 311 of volume 6 of the Thwaites edition of the Relations.

This harpoon fishing is usually done only at night. Two Savages enter a canoe,—one at the stern, who handles the oars, and the other at the bow, who, by the light of a bark torch fastened to the prow of his boat, looks around searchingly for the prey, floating gently along the shores of this great river. When he sees an Eel, he thrusts his harpoon down, without loosening his hold of it, pierces it in the manner I have described, then throws it into his canoe. There are certain ones who will take three hundred in one night, and even more, sometimes very few. It is wonderful how many of these fish are found in this great river, in the months of September and October; and this immediately in front of the settlement of our French, some of whom, having lived several years in this country, have become as expert as the Savages in this art.

Aside from his questionable use of the word ‘Savages,’ LeJeune’s description beautifully details the performance of this nocturnal harvest, which Paul Kane captures on canvas in 1845.

Paul Kane

‘Fishing by Torch Light’ is an 1845 oil-on-paper sketch by Paul Kane (1810-1871).

While fishing with leisters is a tradition that has continued into modern times, the practice of doing so at night using torches has been lost in Waswanipi, as in most of Cree country. There are regions, however, where the practice has been remembered, and others where the practice has continued. In fact, the online Innu Dictionary continues to list vocabulary associated with the activity. In 1995, our relatives in what is now called Labrador took some students out on the land to experience our traditional culture. Included was torch-fishing with leisters. The following is a photograph of the students learning this age-old tradition.

Nutshimiu Atusseun Program: students salmon spearing at Tshenuamiu River 1995. Photo: Anthony Jenkinson

Nutshimiu Atusseun Program: students salmon spearing at Tshenuamiu River 1995. Photo: Anthony Jenkinson

This picture perfectly illustrates the meaning of Wâswânipiy, a lake where our people fished with leisters by torchlight. With the growing interest in our traditional culture, now might be the time to reintroduce this tradition. Either way, putting the torch back on the community’s emblem would be a good start!

A Glossary for Torch-Fishing

anihtokan. noun (inanimate); the barbed point of a leister

anihtoy. noun (animate); a leister

anihtoyâhtikw. noun (inanimate); the wooden handle of a leister

tahkamew. verb (transitive, animate); s/he spears it

wâswâkan. noun (inanimate); a torch used for night-fishing

wâswâkanaškway. noun (inanimate); a birchbark torch used for night-fishing

wâswân. noun (inanimate); place where people fish by torchlight using leisters

Wâswânipiy. place name; lake where people fish by torchlight using leisters

wâswâniwiw. verb (intransitive, inanimate); people are fishing by torchlight using leisters

wâswetotawew. verb (transitive, animate); s/he harvests it by torchlight using a leister

wâswew. verb (intransitive, animate); s/he fishes by torchlight using a leister


Kôhkom vs Nôhkom

I recently came across a post on social media encouraging people to teach their kids to say nôhkom, rather than kôhkom, when addressing their grandmothers. Similarly, nimošôm was encouraged, rather than cimošôm, when addresing their grandfathers. But is this, in fact, correct? If so, where does this use of kôhkom and cimošôm come from and why do people perpetuate their incorrect usage?

The crux of the matter here is the historical loss of the vocative case in most Cree dialects. While it is preserved in the old written documents and recordings, the majority of Cree speakers today do not make use of a vocative case – it is one of many grammatical details lost in the Cree language of the post-residential school era. As such, a few monolingual elders today preserve a small number of vocative case examples, but they are the exceptions that prove the rule.

So what exactly is a vocative case? The vocative case is the form a noun takes when it is used in addressing a person. In Cree, the vocative case is formed in various ways, depending on what type of noun is being used and whether it is singular or plural. Plural vocative cases are the simplest. These are formed by the addition of the suffix …tikw. When addressing a group of men, the vocative form is therefore nâpetikw. When address a group of people, the form is iyinîtikw. When addressing a group of children, one would say awâšišitikw.

This brings us now to the more complex singular forms. There are generally two ways to form the singular vocative case, though the singular is further complicated by a number of exceptions. Let’s first look at the first vocative form.

For all nouns ending in a w, the vocative case is formed by dropping the w and replacing it by an h. If one were addressing a man, the form would therefore be nâpeh. When addressing a woman, the equivalent form would be iskweh.

The second form is used for nouns that end in a consonant other than w. For these nouns, the vocative suffix …eh is used. The timeless example here is of Cahkâpeš addressing his sister as nimišeh! [Note here that the proper form is nimiseh, but Cahkâpeš is said to speak like a child and therefore changes every t to c and every s to š.] When addressing one’s paternal uncle, one would say nôhkomiseh! When addressing one’s maternal uncle, one would say nisiseh!

Finally there are the exceptions. The two most common examples here are the words for mother and father. If one wanted to say, “my mother” in Cree, the proper form is nikâwiy [not mâmâ!]. The vocative form, however, is nekâh. Similarly, if one wanted to say, “my father,” the proper form is nôhtâwiy [not pâpâ!]. The vocative form here is nôhtâh. These forms are common enough that most elderly speakers today would recognize them.

This then brings us back to the kôhkom versus nôhkom discussion. People are right in saying that nôhkom means, “my grandmother.” But they are unfortunately wrong in suggesting that this form is correct vocatively. To suggest replacing kôhkom by nôhkom when addressing one’s grandmother would, in fact, represent a case of hypercorrection. In other words, our lack of familiarity with a particular form, in this case the original vocative form, is misleading us into thinking that the simple possessive form should serve as the vocative. In this particular instance, the correct vocative form is nôhkow, pronounced /nuuhkuu/.

But what about the vocative form for grandfather? In this case, my own research and discussions with elders did not reveal any other form besides nimošôm, which raises the question as to whether the word can serve as a recipient to the vocative suffix …eh. My inclination would be to say yes, but this is something I cannot confirm.

So where did our vocative use of the kôhkom and cimošôm come from? People are correct in saying these forms are the second person singular possessive forms. In other words, these mean “your grandmother” and “your grandfather,” respectively. My inclination is to say these are forms that have come to be used as vocatives when children repeat after their parents. For example, imagine a parent telling their young child to tell their grandmother they love her. A parent might say, “”Ci sâcihitin” iš kôhkom!” Imagine a child then walking up to their grandmother and repeating what they were told, saying, “ci sâcihitin kôhkom.” In this way,  a possessive form becomes incorrectly used as a vocative form. Of course, we would then expect the child to learn the proper form, but this kind of error is common in other languages. Consider the French language, for example, and how the words oncle and tante are often replaced by mononcle and matante. Even though these two forms literally mean, “my uncle” and “my aunt,” this would not prevent someone from saying something like “ton mononcle” and “ta matante.”

As a result of the widespread use of kôhkom as a vocative, people have come to use côhkom, pronounced /chuuhkum/, as the second person singular possessive form. This form is typically produced by a young speaker that has yet to figure out the exceptions to palatalization, a topic perhaps for another blogpost. However, in this case, the form has become generalized as a way of distinguishing it from kôhkom.

As a result, what we then have a kind of domino effect, where one form takes the place of another as the original vocative, nôhkow, is lost.

côhkom → kôhkom → nôhkow

Since we have broached the topic of childish forms, let us finish with a brief word about  these. Childish forms are words or conjugations typically used by children, who abandon the forms as they mature and acquire adult language. Alas, many childish forms have become the norm in the speech of post-residential school generations, including my own speech. Examples of childish conjugations include saying things like kâ wâpamâyâhc rather than kâ wâpamaciht or kâ wâpamikoyâhc, instead of kâ wâpamiyamihtExamples of childish words in my dialect include saying niwî šîšîn rather than niwî šicin, niwî kwâkwân instead of niwî minihkwen, or niwî pepen for niwî nipân.

Of particular interest to this discussion is the existence of two childish vocative forms for “grandmother” and “grandfather.” For “grandmother,” there is the vocative form kôkow,  pronounced /kuukuu/, while for grandfather the form is môcow, pronounced /muuchuu/. These forms tend to be used in coastal communities.

So let us wrap things up. People are, in fact, correct in pointing out that kôhkom and cimošôm are being incorrectly used as vocatives, but the story is far from simple. There is a whole class of word forms called the vocative case that has generally gone into disuse, except in the speech of some monolingual elders. Short of convincing everyone to start using vocatives again, regular possessive forms will probably continue being used incorrectly as vocatives. This raises an important question – at what point does one accept that these errors are in fact merely examples of language change?

ᓂᐐ ᓇᔅᑯᒫᐤ Florrie Mark-Stewart ᑳ ᐯᒋ ᐊᔭᒥᐦᐃᑦ ᒉᒋᔐᑉ ᑳ ᑖᐦᑳᐱᐦᒉᓇᒪᐗᒃ᙮ ᒨᔥ ᓂ ᐯᒋ ᐐᒋᐦᐃᒄ ᐁ ᑲᑴᒋᒪᒃ ᒫᓐᐦ ᒉᒀᔨᐤᐦ᙮ ᓂᐸ ᓇᔅᑯᒫᐤ ᐌᔥᑕᐐᔾ ᓂᑳᐎᔾ ᐁ ᐯᒋ ᐐᐦᑕᒪᐎᑦ ᑖᓐ ᐁᑌᔨᐦᑕᐦᒃ ᐆᔨᐤ ᑳ ᒪᓯᓇᐦᐊᒧᒃ᙮

Moose Factory Cree: In Memory of Daisy Turner

image description

As the days grew shorter this year, almost symbolically it seemed, our nation saw the passing of Daisy Turner, a woman whose contribution to our language was known largely from the publication of her Moose Factory Cree in 1974. One year shy of becoming a centenarian, Daisy Turner had spent the last couple of years of her life in a elders’ home in Timmins, only to briefly return home to Moosonee before ‘going to sleep,’ as we sometimes say in Cree.

While preparing the second edition of the Dictionary of Moose Cree, published in 2015, I decided I should try to meet Daisy. My opportunity came when, heading home from Moose Factory, I had a few hours to spend in Moosonee before my plane landed.

Daisy greeted me at her beautiful home and cleared the kitchen table. She brought out her Moose Factory Cree and told me all about its origins. She then generously entertained my thoughts and answered some questions about the local dialect as we discussed the publication of the new dictionary, a project she supported wholeheartedly. What touched me most about our exchange, however, was her personal account of learning the language.

Moose Factory Cree

Published in 1974 by the now defunct Highway Book Shop

As she related during our conversation, Daisy had not acquired the Cree language in her own home. Speaking Cree, she told me, was not encouraged by her parents, both of whom were Cree-speakers, but who were also wemištikôšîhkân. This word, which literally means ‘made European,’ is how people of biracial parenting (and their children) are referred to in Cree.

The wemištikôšîhkân typically occupied a higher social status in the world of the fur trade, partly due to their ability to act as intermediaries between our people and Europeans. And while a man of biracial parenting might reasonably be expected to work at the trading post, speaking both Cree and English, and potentially marrying a Cree woman, a woman of similar parenting was often expected to approximate the European woman, speaking English, and marrying White, so to speak, if possible.

Such stories are common in our communities, but Daisy had a different idea in mind. She could not stand the idea of not being able to speak Cree. As she put it, she would leave her part of the village to visit the tents occupied by Cree families summering on the island. And while her friends were busy playing, she explained how she would often sit with their monolingual Cree elders and revel in their stories as she gradually acquired the language.


Moose Factory in 1935 – Daisy would have been 17 years old back then

This is what makes Daisy’s story so interesting and inspiring. In a world where the state of our language is increasingly precarious, a world saturated by English that continuously insinuates the demise of our language, Daisy’s story reminds us that if we care enough to make the effort we can make a difference. After all, Daisy not only learned to speak Cree, but helped countless people by using her language skills to interpret for them during their encounters with medical professionals. And then of course there is her little book. Published in 1974, it joins the Cree Way Project in marking the 1970s as the beginning of our locally driven efforts to publish in our own language.

Daisy’s contribution to the Dictionary of Moose Cree can be counted as 615 entries, but her legacy as a Cree woman cannot be measured.

Sleep well Daisy, your rest is well-deserved.



The chars belong to a genus of fish known by the Latin name, Salvelinus. Three species of char are indigenous to Cree country – the arctic char, the brook trout, and the lake trout. Of the three, the lake trout is the largest, with the heaviest recorded catch weighing in at 102 lbs. But it is also notable for another reason – it is the only fish indigenous to Cree country who’s scientific name is Cree!

The lake trout’s binomial is Salvelinus namaycush. The first part identifies it as a member of the genus of chars, but the second part is actually a Cree borrowing. Namaycush, or rather namekos (following a Cree orthography), is one of two names used for this fish in Cree communities around Wînipek(the body of water otherwise known as James Bay). Its other Cree name consists of three closely related variants mainly used in coastal communities, namely kôkamew, kôkames, and kôkamekw.

The names of many American animals and fish are in fact borrowings from indigenous American languages, but few have been assigned an indigenous scientific name. Pointing out the lake trout’s binomial to Cree-speaking school children will surely make these budding scientists proud!

Lost in Translation: Prostate Exams


Since I began medical school, every module has inspired me to investigate anatomical and medical vocabulary in Cree. Given that we have been learning about the genitourinary system these days, I’ve been calling elders weekly with questions. Recently, while speaking to a septuagenarian from Moose Factory, I decided to ask him about prostate exams. Clearly aware of the subject, he chose to relate a story about his late father.

“A doctor used to come here long ago,” he said. “I guess people weren’t too fond of him – you could tell by the name they gave him,” he added.

Of course I asked him to continue and he said, laughingly, “My father used to call that doctor ᑳ ᓂᐦᑖ ᐴᐦᒋᑎᔦᓂᑫᑦ.” Of course I broke out laughing as well, but he had some advice for me. If I wanted to avoid being named in such a fashion, I should remain wary of appearing too zealous about things like prostate exams!

ᐴᑑ ᑳ ᒌ ᐃᔑᓂᐦᑳᑖᑲᓂᐎᑦ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ

ᐗᔭᐐᑎᒥᐦᒡ ᐁ ᒌ ᒣᑕᐌᔨᑯᐸᓀ ᐅᑯᓯᓴ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᐃᔅᑴᐤ, ᒌ ᐴᒣᐦᐁᑯᐸᓐ ᒉ ᐯᒋ ᒌᐌᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᒌ ᐯᐦᑖᑯᓯᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᑌᑆᑖᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐗᔭᐐᑎᒥᐦᒡ, ᑑ! ᐁᑯᓐ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐃᔑᓂᐦᑳᑖᑦ ᐅᑯᓯᓴ – ᐁ ᒌ ᐴᒐᐎᔑᔑᔨᒡᐦ ᑲᔭᐹ᙮ ᑑ ᐋᔥᑕᒻ! ᑑ ᐋᔥᑕᒻ! ᐁ ᒪᑗ ᑌᑆᑖᑦ᙮

ᓂᒧᔔᒻ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐐᑕᐱᒫᑯᐸᓀ ᓅᐦᑯᒻᐦ ᒌ ᐯᐦᑕᐌᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐃᔅᑴᐤᐦ ᐁ ᒪᑗ ᑌᐺᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᐁ ᐹᐦᐱᑦ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐃᑌᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᓅᐦᑯᒻᐦ, ᒉᒀᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᑳ ᐴᑕᐙᔥᑕᓂᔨᒡ?

ᐁ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐊᔭᒥᐦᑖᓂᐗᐦᒃ ᒪᓯᓇᐦᐃᑲᓐ


ᐊᔅᑮᐎ ᑲᑫᐦᑖᐌᓕᐦᑕᒨᐎᓕᓕᐤ: ᑖᓐᑌ ᓃᔥᑕᒻ ᑳ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐊᔮᔭᓐ ᐆᒪ ᐐᐗᔑᐎᓐ?

ᒃᕆᔅᑎᔭᓐ: ᐁ ᐊᔭᒥᐦᑖᔮᓐ ᐆᒪ ᒪᓯᓇᐦᐃᑲᓐ ᑳ ᑕᐦᑯᓇᒫᓐ᙮

ᐊᔅᑮᐎ ᑲᑫᐦᑖᐌᓕᐦᑕᒨᐎᓕᓕᐤ: ᐁᒀᓂ ᑳ ᐃᑌᓕᐦᑕᒫᓐ; ᓀᔥᑕ ᑭᑮ ᐃᐦᑎᓐ ᑖᐱᔅᑰᒡ ᑯᑕᑭᔭᒃ ᑳ ᓖᓚᒥᓰᒋᒃ ᐃᓕᓕᐗᒃ, ᐁ ᐸᐱᓯᔅᑫᓕᐦᑕᐦᑭᒃ ᐊᓂᐦᐃ ᑫᒀᓇ ᐅᓵᒻ ᑳ ᐋᓕᒪᓂᓕᑭ, ᓭᓯᑯᒡ ᐸᐦᑭᔑᓋᒃ ᐗᐙᓀᓕᐦᑕᒧᐎᓂᐦᒃ: ᐊᓂᐦᐃ ᐗᐙᓀᓕᐦᑕᒧᐎᓇ ᓇᒪᐐᓚ ᐱᑯ ᓖᓚᒥᐦᐃᑯᐗᒃ ᐃᓕᓕᐗᒃ, ᑖᐱᔅᑰᒡ ᑮᓚ ᑳ ᑑᑖᑯᔭᓐ, ᒫᑲ ᐃᔅᐸᐦᐃᑐᐗᒃ ᐁ ᐃᔑ ᐋᓕᒣᓕᐦᑖᑾᓂᓕᒃ ᑭᒋ ᒥᔅᑲᐦᑭᒃ ᐊᓂᒪ ᐁᑳ ᑳ ᑭᔅᑫᓕᐦᑕᐦᑭᒃ᙮

ᐅᐸᐹᒧᐦᑌᐤ ᐁ ᐱᒥᐱᒋᑦ
ᑳ ᑴᔅᑲᓯᓇᐦᐃᑫᑦ ᑖᒪᔅ ᕕᓐᓯᓐᑦ, 1886

Syllabics and the Unicode Consortium

When the Canadian government announced the release of the Canada 150 Typeface last year, I was immensely pleased to read that it would support Cree syllabics. In our communities, however, it is common knowledge that syllabic typefaces based on the Unicode Standard contain a number of errors in the sh-series that make typing in Cree quite a hassle. Fonts designed either locally or by linguists in the know have been used for years to circumvent this problem, but this requires that one manually change the font selected whenever typing in syllabics. Therefore, with the release of Canada 150, I immediately wanted to verify its Cree syllabics to see if the errors had been corrected.

Sadly, the errors had not been rectified and this prompted me to contact the designer of the typeface, Raymond Larabie. He was surprised to hear that the Unicode Standard contained such errors and immediately offered to help get the message across to the Unicode Consortium. We worked together to identify the erroneous glyphs and sent them examples of how the glyphs should be oriented. Eventually, the consortium replied and paid the matter the attention it deserved. A few months and emails later, the Unicode Consortium informed us that they had published a new errata notice to publicize the corrections that will take effect with the release of the Unicode Standard 9.0.

Barriers related to the use of our language need to be identified and removed if our language is to survive its uncertain future and perhaps even thrive once again. A font related problem might not seem that significant, but this little hassle has served as a disincentive for many people who would have otherwise embraced pairing our language with modern technology. I would therefore like to acknowledge and thank Debbie Anderson, Unicode Technical Director, and Raymond Larabie for their assistance in solving this problem.

It will take a while for typefaces to catch up with the corrections. In the meantime, those wishing to type in Cree can download and install the BJCree typeset provided freely here. It can be used on word processors, but not on social media. For the latter, we will simply have to be patient as we wait for the world to catch up to the Unicode Standard 9.0.

The errors and corrections can be seen below in the consortium’s latest errata notice.

Errata Unicode

Rapping in Cree

N’we Jinan, stylized from niwîcinân/ᓂᐐᒋᓈᓐ, meaning ‘we live (in a certain place)’, is a music initiative that provides a platform for Indigenous artists throughout Canada. Having gained in popularity since the release of their 2014 compilation album, they have since produced songs and albums for a variety of Indigenous artists, many of them Cree youth from the east coast of James Bay.

What caught my ear recently was a verse from their latest song. This verse, a rap by Gary Jolly from Nemaska, is performed entirely in Cree. Although he wouldn’t be the first to attempt such a feat, he certainly gets credit for exhibiting a style and cadence appropriate to the genre.

It should be noted that his rap features many contractions typical of the East Cree dialect as spoken by youth in Nemiska and can therefore be quite difficult to follow if one is not accustomed to it. As such, I have transcribed the lyrics below the video for those interested in seeing what he is saying. Enjoy!

ᒬᐦᒡ ᐁᑳ ᒥᑐᓐ ᐁ ᐱᓯᔅᑳᑎᑲᐎᔮᓐ ᐁ ᐃᑌᔨᐦᑕᒫᓐ
ᓲᐦᒃ ᒫᒃ ᓂᑲ ᑯᒋᐦᑖᓐ ᐆᑕᐦ ᐊᔅᒌᐦᒡ ᒉ ᐱᒧᐦᑌᔮᓐ
ᐊᓄᐦᒌᔥ ᒋᑲ ᐯᐦᑕᐎᓈᐙᐤ ᐁ ᐊᔮᔑᐦᑴᔮᐦᒡ
ᒬᐦᒡ ᐊᓐᑌ ᐁ ᐗᓂᔑᓂᔮᐦᒡ ᑖᓐ ᐁᔑᓈᑯᓯᔮᐦᒡ ᐁ ᐅᔥᒋᓃᒌᐎᔮᐦᒡ
ᒥᒄ ᓂᑖᐺᐦᑌᓐ ᐯᔭᑯ ᒌᔑᑳᐤ ᒉ ᐸᓯᑰᑣᐤ
ᒨᔾ ᓂᐐ ᐙᐸᐦᑌᓐ ᓇᑕᐐᔨᔾ ᐁ ᐃᔑ ᐱᒫᑎᓰᑣᐤ
ᒉ ᓂᐦᑖᐎᒋᑣᐤ ᐁ ᓃᑳᓂᔥᑲᐙᑣᐤ ᐅᔥᒋᓃᒋᐤᐦ ᑲᔦ ᐐᔭᐙᐤ
ᒉ ᑑᑕᐦᒀᐤ ᑖᓐ ᑳ ᐃᑕᔓᒥᑯᑣᐤ ᒋᔐᒪᓂᑑᐦ

Reading Syllabics: Lesson 3


Lesson 3

Ordinal Characters

In this lesson you will learn how to read five more sets of syllabic characters along with their superscript counterparts. You will also learn how to read new words as you work your way through the lesson. Are you ready?


The first character of this lesson is pronounced like the ke in skeleton, never like the ke in kelp or the ge in get. This is what it looks like:

Memorize its shape as you repeat its sound, paying close attention to the direction in which it points. Let’s now move on to the next character.

This character has the same shape as the first character, but it points in a different direction. This one is pronounced like the ki in skit or the kee in skeet, never like the ki in kit or the kee in keep.  Memorize its shape as you repeat its sound, paying close attention to the direction in which it points. When a fuller or longer vowel sound is required, a dot is place above this character, for example:

Accompanied by a dot, this character now sounds like the ki in skied, never like the key in keyed. The next character also shares the same shape as the first two characters, but again this one points in another direction.

This character is pronounced like the coo in scoop, never like the coo in coot. Its vowel sound may also be pronounced closer to the one in book. Once again, to achieve a fuller or longer sound, a dot is placed above the vowel.

Accompanied by the overhead dot, it now sounds like the choo in school. Memorize its shape as you repeat its sound, again paying attention to the direction in which it points. Only one  character left in this set!

ᑲ ᑳ

The plain form on the left is pronounced like the cu in scuttle or the ca in scat. The dotted one on the right has a fuller and longer sound, courtesy of the overhead dot. This one sounds like the ca in scab. Memorize the shape and the direction in which this last character points. You have now learned a complete set!

ᑫ       ᑭ       ᑯ       ᑲ

By now you have surely noticed that this set of characters does not point in the four cardinal directions the way the characters from the last two lessons do. Instead, this set of characters is rotated so that its round head is placed in one of four corners, each associated with its own vowel.  Top-left is associated with the vowel E; top-right with the vowel I; bottom-left with O; and bottom-right with A.  Since the characters point, more or less, in the ordinal (or intercardinal) directions as opposed to the cardinal directions, characters that obey this pattern are called ordinal characters. Here is a mnemonic device to help you remember the directions and their associated vowels. We will build on this mnemonic as we learn more character sets.

ᑫ ᑭ
ᑯ ᑲ

Now that you have learned a first set of ordinal characters the following sets will be a breeze. Here is the first character of the next set:

This character sounds like the ge of gem. Notice how this character’s head is located in the top-left corner? Do you see how a pattern is emerging? Keep in mind directions in which the characters of the first set point as you learn this set.

ᒉ ᒋ ᒍ ᒐ

Take your time to memorize this shape and the four directions in which it points. Listen to the audio track as many times as you need to help you remember the vowels associated with its four directions. You have now learn two sets of ordinal characters:

ᒉ    ᒋ
ᑫ ᑭ
ᑯ ᑲ
ᒍ    ᒐ

You are now ready to learn a third set of ordinal characters. The following character sounds like the me in medical. Can you predict the direction in which it points? That is correct! It will point to the top-left corner. Here is the character:

Take your time to memorize this shape. The next three characters of this set will follow the predictable pattern of the two previous sets. Here is the full set.

ᒣ ᒥ ᒧ ᒪ

Take your time to memorize this set and the four directions to which it points. Listen to the audio track as many times as you need to help you remember the vowels associated with its four directions. You have now learn three sets of ordinal characters:

ᒣ       ᒥ
ᒉ    ᒋ
ᑫ ᑭ
ᑯ ᑲ
ᒍ    ᒐ
ᒧ       ᒪ

By now you have memorized the four ordinal directions and their associated vowels. The next two sets follow the same pattern, but their shapes can be a little tricky to learn. That is because they are the same shapes as the first two sets learned above, except that they lie horizontally instead of vertically. Here is the first set. It represents the consonant otherwise known as N in English, matched of course with the four vowels as usual.

ᓀ ᓂ ᓄ ᓇ

Notice how this set has the same shape as the first set of this lesson. For this set, however, it is the tail that points in the four expected directions. Pay close attention to the difference between the two sets and listen to the audio track as needed to help you remember the vowels associated with their four directions.

You are now ready to learn the last set of this lesson. Notice how the shape of this set is identical to the second set learned above, except that the characters are laid horizontally as opposed to vertically. Once again, the tail of this character will point to the four directions, not the head.  This set represents the consonant otherwise known as L in English. Note, however, that its sound is closer to the French or Spanish L, rather than the English L.

ᓓ ᓕ ᓗ ᓚ

Note that this last set is not used much outside of the Moose Cree dialect. It represents an older sound that, save for a few words, has been replaced by a Y-sound in the dialects spoken along the east coast of James Bay. Although dialects other than Moose Cree have also preserved this sound, they do not use the syllabic spelling system. You will therefore not encounter this set of characters very often, but it nonetheless represents a Cree sound that has to be learned!

We can now update our mnemonic to represent the five character sets you have learned and the directions in which they point.

ᓓ            ᓕ
ᓀ         ᓂ
ᒣ       ᒥ
ᒉ    ᒋ
ᑫ ᑭ
ᑯ ᑲ
ᒍ    ᒐ
ᒧ       ᒪ
ᓄ         ᓇ
ᓗ            ᓚ

Now, let’s practice reading a few words!

1. A young child who is hurt may complain of having a…


2. A word that means “baby”


3. The baby will often ask for its…


4. The baby wants to sleep and says…


5. The baby wants its mommy and cries out…


6. “This English word was not used long ago,” complains the grandmother. She corrects the baby by teaching him to say…


7. The grandmother’s name is Mary, but everybody calls her…


You’ve learned five new sets and already are reading a bunch of new words! Let’s keep going, shall we?

You may have noticed how the above sets all feature syllables containing a consonant sound along with a vowel sound. In order to write a consonant sound without any accompanying vowel, the last character of any set is spelled as a superscript symbol. Notice how these superscript characters are identical to the last character of the sets you’ve just learned.

ᑫ, ᑭ, ᑯ, ᑲ, ᒃ
ᒉ, ᒋ, ᒍ, ᒐ, ᒡ
ᒣ, ᒥ, ᒧ, ᒪ, ᒻ
ᓀ, ᓂ, ᓄ, ᓇ, ᓐ
ᓓ, ᓕ, ᓗ, ᓚ, ᓪ

In addition to these basic consonants, there are two more superscript consonants to learn. Some Cree words preserve a kind of W-sound after a final consonant. This sound is only heard at the end of certain words and only following the consonants  ᒃ and  ᒻ. To write this sound following these consonants we write  ᒄ and  ᒽ instead of ᒃ and  ᒻ.  Notice how these two superscript characters are based on  the larger ᑯ and  characters. These special superscript finals are important to capture the right pronunciation. But they are also important to distinguish certain words such as:

ᒉᒃ           ᒉᒄ
[eventually]     [which?]

Remember that when a dot precedes a character that is composed of a consonantal sound followed by a vowel sound, the W is pronounced between the consonant and vowel. Read the following words to reinforce this concept. Translations will help guide your pronunciation if you are unsure of your reading.

ᓂᒌ ᑴᑎᐲᓐ!    ᒬᐦᒡ      ᒸᒄ
[I capsized!]   [like]   [a loon]

In this lesson, you have learned to read five sets of characters. You’ve learned that these sets of characters all pattern according to the ordinal or intercardinal directions and that the vowels associated with these directions remain constant from one set to the next. Having learned all this has allowed you to read the following words:

ᓂᒌ ᑴᑎᐲᓐ

And many more!

VTI – Conjuct Subjunctive (Relational)


1s ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒧᑫ
2s ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒧᑌ
3s ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒸᑌ

1p ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒧᒋᐦᑌ
21 ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒧᐦᑫ
2p ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒬᑴ
3p ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒸᑣᐌᓂᒡ

Note: Neighbouring East Cree dialects feature …ᒧᒉ as the 1st person form instead of the …ᒧᑫ form found here. In this respect, the Waswanipi form agrees with the neighbouring Atikamekw dialect, and also with the Moose Cree dialect spoken to the west, where the form is the non-contracted equivalent,  …ᒶᑫ.

VTI – Conjuct Indicative (Relational)


1s ᐁ ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒧᒃ
2s ᐁ ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒧᑦ
3s ᐁ ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒸᑦ

1p ᐁ ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒧᒋᐦᑦ
21 ᐁ ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒧᐦᒄ
2p ᐁ ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒬᒄ
3p ᐁ ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᒸᑣᐤ

Note: Neighbouring East Cree dialects feature …ᒧᒡ as the 1st person form instead of the …ᒧᒃ form found here. In this respect, the Waswanipi form agrees with the neighbouring Atikamekw dialect, and also with the Moose Cree dialect spoken to the west, where the form is the non-contracted equivalent,  …ᒶᒃ.

Cree Notions of Manhood

ᓂᒌ ᑖᐦᑳᐱᐦᒉᓇᒪᐙᐤ ᐅᑖᑯᔒᐦᒡ ᒋᔐᐃᔨᓂᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᑳ ᐐᒋᑦ ᒨᓱᓃᐎ ᒥᓂᔥᑎᑯᐦᒡ ᐁ ᐐ ᑲᑴᒋᒪᒃ ᒉᒀᓂᐦᐃ ᑳ ᒫᒥᑐᓀᔨᐦᑕᒧᒃ᙮ ᒣᒀᒡ ᑳ ᐊᔭᒥᐦᐃᑐᔮᐦᒡ ᒌ ᒋᐦᑖᑐᑕᒻ ᐌᔥᑲᒡ ᑳᒌ ᐃᑖᑲᓂᐎᔨᒡᐦ ᓈᐯᐤᐦ ᐅᔥᑲᒡ ᐁ ᐅᐦᑖᐐᒫᐎᔨᒡᐦ᙮

ᑭ ᑭᔅᑫᓕᐦᑌᓐ ᓈ ᑖᓂ ᐁᑖᑲᓂᐎᑦ ᓈᐯᐤ ᐅᔥᑲᒡ ᐁ ᐅᐦᑖᐐᒫᐎᑦ ᐁ ᐅᑯᓯᓯᑦ ᒫᑲ? ᓂᒌ ᑲᑴᒋᒥᒄ᙮

ᓇᒪᐐᔾ᙮ ᓂᒌ ᐃᑖᐤ ᐁ ᓇᔥᑴᐗᔑᐦᐊᒃ᙮

ᒨᓚ ᐁᔥᑾ ᑭ ᓈᐯᐎᓐ! ᐃᑖᑲᓂᐎᐤ᙮ ᓂᒌ ᐃᑎᒄ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒋᔐᐃᔨᓂᐤ᙮

ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑲᑴᒋᒪᒃ, ᑖᓐ ᒫᒃ ᐁᑖᑲᓂᐎᑦ ᐐᔾ ᐅᔥᑲᒡ ᐁ ᐅᑖᓂᓯᑦ?

ᐋᔕᔾ ᒫᑲ ᑭ ᓈᐯᐎᓐ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ ᐁ ᐹᐦᐱᑦ᙮



I went snaring this past weekend and noticed this bird watching me. Its name in Cree is ᒣᒣᐤ (memew). In English it is called the Pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus).

What Profits a Man?

ᐌᓴ ᑫᒀᓕᐤ ᑫ ᐅᐦᑎᓯᑦ ᐃᓕᓕᐤ, ᐋᑕ ᒥᓯᐌ ᐊᔅᑮᓕᐤ ᑫ ᑲᔥᑭᐦᑖᑴ, ᑮᔥᐱᓐ ᑫ ᐗᓂᐦᐋᑴ ᐅᑦ ᐊᐦᒑᐦᑾ?

For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

– Mark 8:36

An Oral Tradition with a Written Past

Pierre-Michel Laure (1731)

Map of Cree country made by the Jesuit Pierre-Michel Laure in 1731

As a child I couldn’t help but notice that my grandmother read a certain book every night before bed. You see, I loved books – dictionaries in particular – and would spend countless hours staring at their contents, much of which was cryptic to my young mind. So seeing my grandmother settling into bed one evening, I climbed up next to her in hopes that she would pull that book out and read.

She did, of course, but not before leafing through the pages to show me every little flower, leaf, and picture she’d inserted at random places to adorn this object that was obviously much more than a simple book to her. As she replaced the picture of an unknown relative, she finally began reading.

I sat next to her as she sounded out each arcane symbol in a reverential tone. It sounded so strange to my young ears. I had heard her speak Cree before – it was, after all, the only language I ever heard her speak. But this was different. It was Cree, but different.

What exactly made it different would eventually become abundantly clear. She was reading the New Testament, a book translated into our language over 140 years ago by Bishop John Horden, whom my grandmother always called John Moosonee. My grandmother sounded different as she read from the New Testament simply because it had been translated into a dialect spoken over 140 years ago at Moosonee – quite a stretch from the Waswanipi dialect she spoke in the 1980s.

NT John Horden

The book my grandmother read on most nights before bed

Though there were obvious dialectal differences, I was never made to think that this was a different language. In fact, the thought that the written form could sound so different from our spoken language would plant a small seed in my young mind that later grew into an interest in the history of our language. It was only a matter of time before I realized I could combine this interest with my love of dictionaries into a lifelong obsession with lexicography.

Over the years this obsession has had me seek out any written source on our language I could find, but historical sources in particular have always captured my attention. There is something fascinating about the existence of Cree-language documents written centuries ago – and these aren’t only religious texts. While the latter are obviously quite numerous, word lists, dictionaries, grammars, and maps also figure among the surviving examples of the historical language. While studying these priceless documents I cannot help but wonder who the indigenous informants were. While the historical narrative has provided us with a few names and stories, like that of Pešâpanohkwew – the woman responsible for Pierre-Michel Laure’s 1726 dictionary – most have not been named, let alone thanked, for their assistance.

Regardless, many historical documents have survived and now have their own stories to tell. Their original religious and colonial purposes may have been insidious,  but their continued existence will determine whether or not we chose to redeem them for our own purposes. I certainly have found much joy in studying their contents, almost religiously, reminiscent of my grandmother’s daily reading of the John Moosonee’s New Testament.

For those interested, historical documents relating to the Cree language can be viewed online at www.massinahigan.ca, a website conceptualized and built by John Bishop, Head of Toponymy for the Cree Nation Government and a good friend of mine.

ᑳ ᓇᐸᑌᒑᐱᑦ


ᑳ ᓇᐸᑌᒑᐱᑦ ᐙᐙᔥᑫᔑᐤ ᒌ ᓇᑕᐎ ᒦᒋᓱᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓈᓯᐯᑎᒥᐦᒡ᙮ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐃᔑᑳᐸᐎᐤ ᒉᒌ ᐃᑖᐱᑦ ᐊᔅᒌᐦᒡ ᐃᑌᐦᒉ ᒉᒃ ᓈᒋᔫᔥᑖᑯᑌ ᓇᑕᐗᐦᐅᓯᐤᐦ᙮ ᐁ ᐯᒋ ᓈᑕᑳᒣᔮᔑᔨᑣᐤᐦ ᒫᒃ ᓇᑕᐗᐦᐅᓯᐤᐦ ᒌ ᐙᐸᒥᑯᐤ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐹᔅᒋᓱᑯᑦ᙮ ᑆᒧᔥ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐸᒋᑕᑖᒧᑦ ᐙᐙᔥᑫᔑᐤ ᒌ ᐃᑌᔨᐦᑕᒻ, ᐁᒄ ᐌᓵ! ᒥᒄ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐊᔅᒌᐦᒡ ᐅᐦᒋ ᓂᒌ ᑯᔅᐸᓃᔥᑕᐙᐗᒡ ᒉ ᐯᒋ ᓈᔑᑣᐤ ᓇᑕᐗᐦᐅᓯᐗᒡ᙮ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒫᒃ ᒥᑐᓐ ᓅᐦᒋ ᐃᑌᔨᐦᑌᓐ ᒉ ᐯᒋ ᓈᑕᐦᐅᑣᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓂᐲᐦᒡ ᐅᐦᒋ᙮ ᑖᐺ ᒫᒃ ᓃᔾ ᑳ ᐗᓂ ᑑᑖᑎᓱᔮᓐ!

The Jimiken Report


Lawrence Jimiken, 1949-2015 (photo by Mélanie Chaplier at Old Nemaska, July 2010)

Anyone who ever had anything to do in Nemaska would probably have had the good fortune of having to speak to Lawrence Jimiken. This walking encyclopedia, as many people described him, would often be an intermediary between Nemaska and the outside world as he graciously shared his time and thoughts with anyone who needed him. Those who may never have met him in person nonetheless benefitted from his role as our nation’s Chief Electoral Officer, a position he held for many years that had him assuring the democratic process was respected during elections. Lawrence benefitted our people in many ways. In fact, he even contributed to our knowledge of the Cree language. This being a blog on the Cree language, I thought I’d honour his memory by sharing the little I know about this contribution of his.


Lawrence Jimiken, 1949-2015 (photo by Patricia Raynault-Desgagné, August 2014)

Pedagogical materials for teaching the Cree language were basically non-existent in the 1970s before the establishment of the Cree School Board. In 1973, an enterprising school principal in Waskaganish, John Murdoch, decided to do something about this. Along with Gertie Murdoch, he started what became known as the Cree Way Project in an attempt to address this lack of pedagogical materials. The scope of the project was impressive. Within a few years, hundreds of booklets dealing with numerous topics were written by people from various Cree communities. One of the well-known contributors to this project is the late Annie Whiskeychan. A lesser-known contributor is Lawrence Jimiken.

The Jimiken Report on Cree Geographic Terms would be published in 1974 by the Cree Way Project. Authored by Lawrence with the assistance of Peter Denny, a linguist that specializes in Algonquian languages, the Jimiken Report would introduce students to the complex morphological structure of Cree geographic terminology. The report presents vocabulary associated with land forms spelled according to their underlying morphology rather than their pronunciation. This practice is a vital key to teaching the Cree language and should naturally form the foundation of any standard Cree orthography. Despite being ahead of its time in this respect, however, we continue to endorse orthographic practices based on phonetic spellings that occasionally obscure the meanings of words.

Patricia Raynault-Desgagné was one of the lucky southerners who benefitted from Lawrence’s endearing ways (July 2011)

The format in which the vocabulary is presented is also of immense pedagogical value. Lexical roots are listed first, followed by a series of word endings consisting of verbal medials, finals, and inflexions. The goal is to visually demonstrate to the student the various combinatorial possibilities of the Cree language. On page 5, for example, we find the lexical root ᐱᔅᒄ followed by a series of word endings with which it can be combined:

ᐱᔅᒄᐋᑯᓇᑳᐤ [a bump in snow]

ᐋᐱᔅᑳᐤ [bump of rock (rocky place)]

ᐊᑎᓈᐤ [high hill (quite high)]

ᓯᒀᐤ [bump in the ice]

ᐋᐗᐦᑳᐤ [bump in sandy place]

Awareness of this combinatorial feature of the Cree language is crucial to acquiring strong language skills. To help students acquire this awareness, the report would propose various exercises for teachers to use or adapt. Unfortunately, our local schools have yet to adopt an effective curriculum for teaching the Cree language and insightful details of the Jimiken Report remain largely ignored, 41 years after its release.

Our collective ability to recognize, acknowledge, and utilize the contributions of intelligent and industrious Cree individuals will be the key to moving our nation forward in future years. Lawrence was one of those individuals. Let’s all cherish his memory and honour him by recognizing, acknowledging, and utilizing his useful contributions as we assiduously work at building our Cree nation.

ᒋ ᓇᓈᔅᑯᒥᑎᓈᓐ Lawrence!

Lawrence Jimiken, 1949-2015 (photo by Patricia Raynault-Desgagné, July 2011)

The Roc


Ililiw nîpâ-kîwekopan e kî natawešket sâkahikanihk. Mitâwakâm pimâtakâskôpan. Ot eškan piminikâtahamokopan.
ᐃᓕᓕᐤ ᓃᐹ ᑮᐌᑯᐸᓐ ᐁ ᑮ ᓇᑕᐌᔥᑫᑦ ᓵᑲᐦᐃᑲᓂᐦᒃ᙮ ᒥᑖᐗᑳᒻ ᐱᒫᑕᑳᔅᑰᐸᓐ᙮ ᐅᑦ ᐁᔥᑲᓐ ᐱᒥᓂᑳᑕᐦᐊᒧᑯᐸᓐ᙮
The man must have been heading home at night after hunting beaver on the lake.  He was walking out on the ice and would have been carrying his chisel over his shoulder.

Mištasiwa mâka kî ohpaholikow. Kî wâpamew kotakiya ililiwa e wâštahowelici, eko mâka e iši-tepwet, “Mištasiw ni pimaholikw kîlawâw kâ wâštahoweyekw!”
ᒥᔥᑕᓯᐗ ᒫᑲ ᑮ ᐅᐦᐸᐦᐅᓕᑯᐤ᙮ ᑮ ᐙᐸᒣᐤ ᑯᑕᑭᔭ ᐃᓕᓕᐗ ᐁ ᐙᔥᑕᐦᐅᐌᓕᒋ, ᐁᑯ ᒫᑲ ᐁ ᐃᔑ ᑌᐺᑦ, ᒥᔥᑕᓯᐤ ᓂ ᐱᒪᐦᐅᓕᒄ ᑮᓚᐙᐤ ᑳ ᐙᔥᑕᐦᐅᐌᔦᒄ!
That’s when the Roc plucked him from the ground. Seeing men waving he cries out, “You who are waving! The Roc has taken me!”

Nâspic mâka e išpâpiskâlik kî iši-pakitaholikow ita e iši-itašelici.
ᓈᔅᐱᒡ ᒫᑲ ᐁ ᐃᔥᐹᐱᔅᑳᓕᒃ ᑮ ᐃᔑ ᐸᑭᑕᐦᐅᓕᑯᐤ ᐃᑕ ᐁ ᐃᔑ ᐃᑕᔐᓕᒋ᙮
It dropped him in a high rocky place where it brooded.

Môšak mâka kihcilâw Mištasiw e natawahot. Misiwe mâka tôwihkâna petaholew, atihkwa nešta môswa.
ᒨᔕᒃ ᒫᑲ ᑭᐦᒋᓛᐤ ᒥᔥᑕᓯᐤ ᐁ ᓇᑕᐗᐦᐅᑦ᙮ ᒥᓯᐌ ᒫᑲ ᑑᐎᐦᑳᓇ ᐯᑕᐦᐅᓓᐤ, ᐊᑎᐦᑾ ᓀᔥᑕ ᒨᔀ᙮
Now, the Roc would constantly fly off to hunt. It would bring back all kinds of animals, caribou and moose.

Ana ililiw nâspic kî nanâhîhkawew mištašîšiša e ašamât wacištonihk e ihtâlici. Misiwe kekwâliw tôtamawew.
ᐊᓇ ᐃᓕᓕᐤ ᓈᔅᐱᒡ ᑮ ᓇᓈᐦᐄᐦᑲᐌᐤ ᒥᔥᑕᔒᔑᔕ ᐁ ᐊᔕᒫᑦ ᐗᒋᔥᑐᓂᐦᒃ ᐁ ᐃᐦᑖᓕᒋ᙮ ᒥᓯᐌ ᑫᒀᓕᐤ ᑑᑕᒪᐌᐤ᙮
The man really took care of the young rocs as he fed them in their nest. He did everything for them.

Keka mihcetw waškwaya petahotâw Mištasiw. Eko ana ililiw pâsipitahk e wacištonihkawât mištasiwa.
ᑫᑲ ᒥᐦᒉᑦ ᐗᔥᑾᔭ ᐯᑕᐦᐅᑖᐤ ᒥᔥᑕᓯᐤ᙮ ᐁᑯ ᐊᓇ ᐃᓕᓕᐤ ᐹᓯᐱᑕᐦᒃ ᐁ ᐗᒋᔥᑐᓂᐦᑲᐙᑦ ᒥᔥᑕᓯᐗ᙮
By and by the Roc brings back much birch bark, which the man rips to pieces as he makes their nest.

Nâspic kispakihkwašikopan Mištasiw e nipât. šay mâka wawânelihtam ililiw ke tôtahk. Itelihtam, “Nika wî kakwe-nipahâwak. Mâhti! Nika saskahwâwak mekwâc e nipâcik waškwâhk e pimišihkik.” Keka peyakwâw mekwâc e nipâlici kî saskahwew eko wetatâmahwât ot eškan ohci. Misiwe mâka kî nipahew.
ᓈᔅᐱᒡ ᑭᔅᐸᑭᐦᑾᔑᑯᐸᓐ ᒥᔥᑕᓯᐤ ᐁ ᓂᐹᑦ᙮ ᐋᔕᔾ ᒫᑲ ᐗᐙᓀᓕᐦᑕᒻ ᐃᓕᓕᐤ ᑫ ᑑᑕᐦᒃ᙮ ᐃᑌᓕᐦᑕᒻ, ᓂᑲ ᐐ ᑲᑴ ᓂᐸᐦᐋᐗᒃ᙮ ᒫᐦᑎ, ᓂᑲ ᓴᔅᑲᐦᐙᐗᒃ ᒣᒀᒡ ᐁ ᓂᐹᒋᒃ ᐗᔥᒀᐦᒃ ᐁ ᐱᒥᔑᐦᑭᒃ! ᑫᑲ ᐯᔭᒀᐤ ᒣᒀᒡ ᐁ ᓂᐹᓕᒋ ᑮ ᓴᔅᑲᐦᐌᐤ ᐁᑯ ᐌᑕᑖᒪᐦᐙᑦ ᐅᑦ ᐁᔥᑲᓐ ᐅᐦᒋ᙮ ᒥᓯᐌ ᒫᑲ ᑮ ᓂᐸᐦᐁᐤ᙮
The Roc must have passed out hard when it slept. Now the man is already at a loss for what to do. He thinks to himself, “I’m going to have to try to kill them. Let me see, I’ll light them up as they lie asleep in the birch bark!” In due course, one day as they slept, the man lit them on fire and beat them with his chisel. He killed them all.

Eko mâka etelihtahk, “Tânte kê kî kîweyân?” Peyakw mâka mištašîšiša ospiskwanâliw e šîkwâhkahtelik pîhcišimolow. Eko tiyîhtipipalihot nâspic e išpâpiskâlik ohci. Keka kipihcipaliw. Walawîw. Itâpiw. Akâwâc tepâpahtam askîliw. Tâpiskôc aštâhkonak e aspišimonihkâniwahk išinâkwan e išinâkosicik mištikwak.
ᐁᑯ ᒫᑲ ᐁᑌᓕᐦᑕᒃ, ᑖᓐᑌ ᑫ ᑮ ᑮᐌᔮᓐ? ᐯᔭᒄ ᒫᑲ ᒥᔥᑕᔒᔑᔕ ᐅᔅᐱᔅᑾᓈᓕᐤ ᐁ ᔒᒀᐦᑲᐦᑌᓕᒃ ᐲᐦᒋᔑᒧᓗᐤ᙮ ᐁᑯ ᑎᔩᐦᑎᐱᐸᓕᐦᐅᑦ ᓈᔅᐱᒡ ᐁ ᐃᔥᐹᐱᔅᑳᓕᒃ ᐅᐦᒋ᙮ ᑫᑲ ᑭᐱᐦᒋᐸᓕᐤ᙮ ᐗᓚᐐᐤ᙮ ᐃᑖᐱᐤ᙮ ᐊᑳᐙᒡ ᑌᐹᐸᐦᑕᒻ ᐊᔅᑮᓕᐤ᙮ ᑖᐱᔅᑰᒡ ᐊᔥᑖᐦᑯᓇᒃ ᐁ ᐊᔅᐱᔑᒧᓂᐦᑳᓂᐗᐦᒃ ᐃᔑᓈᑾᓐ ᐁ ᐃᔑᓈᑯᓯᒋᒃ ᒥᔥᑎᑾᒃ᙮
He then thinks to himself, “How will I manage to get home?” Of the little rocs’ incinerated bodies, only their backs remained. Squeezing himself into one of these backs, he rolls himself down from that high rocky place. Eventually he stops rolling. He climbs out. He looks around. He can barely see the earth. The trees (look so small) they resemble a litter of boughs.

Eko mîna tiyîhtipipalihot. Mîna kipihcipaliw. Ewako ôma askiy.
ᐁᑯ ᒦᓇ ᑎᔩᐦᑎᐱᐸᓕᐦᐅᑦ᙮ ᒦᓇ ᑭᐱᐦᒋᐸᓕᐤ᙮ ᐁᐗᑯ ᐆᒪ ᐊᔅᑮ᙮
So he rolls himself down again and again he stops. This then is the earth.

Eko welawît. Eko miyâcît. Ililiwa otihtew ekâ e nihtâ-mîcisolici, piko e milâhtamilici. Ekwâni e tôtamilici e mîcisolici. Kî ašamikow mâka. Eko mâka peyakw ot awâšimišiliwa kâ kiskinawâpamikot e mîcisot.
ᐁᑯ ᐌᓚᐐᑦ᙮ ᐁᑯ ᒥᔮᒌᑦ᙮ ᐃᓕᓕᐗ ᐅᑎᐦᑌᐤ ᐁᑳ ᐁ ᓂᐦᑖ ᒦᒋᓱᓕᒋ, ᐱᑯ ᐁ ᒥᓛᐦᑕᒥᓕᒋ᙮ ᐁᒀᓂ ᐁ ᑑᑕᒥᓕᒋ ᐁ ᒦᒋᓱᓕᒋ᙮ ᑮ ᐊᔕᒥᑯᐤ ᒫᑲ᙮ ᐁᑯ ᒫᑲ ᐯᔭᒄ ᐅᑦ ᐊᐙᔑᒥᔑᓕᐗ ᑳ ᑭᔅᑭᓇᐙᐸᒥᑯᑦ ᐁ ᒦᒋᓱᑦ᙮
So he gets out and then starts off. He reaches a group of people that do not know how to eat for real – they only smell. That’s how they eat. So they fed him and one of their children learned how to eat by watching him.

Mîna mâka wetihtât aweliwa – ewakwânihi wîwa. Namawîla mâka ohci kiskelimikow wîwa wîla e âwit. Ôma mâka kî itew, “Nîla ô kâ kî kihtaholit Mištasiw!”
ᒦᓇ ᒫᑲ ᐌᑎᐦᑖᑦ ᐊᐌᓕᐗ – ᐁᐗᒀᓂᐦᐃ ᐐᐗ᙮ ᓇᒪᐐᓚ ᒫᑲ ᐅᐦᒋ ᑭᔅᑫᓕᒥᑯᐤ ᐐᐗ ᐐᓚ ᐁ ᐋᐎᑦ᙮ ᐆᒪ ᒫᑲ ᑮ ᐃᑌᐤ, ᓃᓚ ᐆ ᑳ ᑮ ᑭᐦᑕᐦᐅᓕᑦ ᒥᔥᑕᓯᐤ!
Again he reaches someone, this one is his wife. She does not know however that it is him (he must have been unrecognizable by then). So he says to her, “I am the one that was taken by the Roc!”

This story was first published in 1881 in Horden’s A Grammar of Cree Language under the name “An Indian’s Adventure.” Although it was first published in an Anglican alphabetic orthography and provided with an interlinear translation, Horden described it as a story first “written by a native in the syllabic characters…” that was included in the grammar so language learners could get a sense of “the Cree idiom and the arrangement of words in sentences.” As a traditional story originally written by a native Moose Cree-speaker in the late 1800s, it is perhaps one of the earliest examples of a genuine Cree language âtayôhkân. In this blogpost, the alphabetic orthography has been modernized and provided with its equivalent in syllabics. The story was also retranslated into English for the benefit of non-Cree speakers. Finally, a few minor adjustments and corrections were made to the text to facilitate its reading. This story was published on this blog on June 24, 2015.

Reading Syllabics: Lesson 2


Lesson 2

Cardinal Characters

In this lesson you will learn how to read two characters along with their superscript counterparts. You will also learn how to read new words as you work your way through the lesson. Are you ready?


The first character of this lesson is pronounced like the pe in sped, never like the pe in pet or the be in bed. This is what it looks like:

As you can see, what would take a consonant and a vowel in English is expressed as one character in Cree. Memorize its shape as you repeat its sound, paying close attention to the direction in which it points. Let’s now move on to the next character.

This character has the same shape as the first character, but it points in a different direction. This one is pronounced like the pi in spit or the pea in speak. Memorize its shape as you repeat its sound, paying close attention to the direction in which it points. When a fuller or longer vowel sound is required, a dot is place above this character, for example:

Accompanied by a dot, this character now sounds like the pee in speed. The next character also shares the same shape as the first two characters, but again this one points in another direction.

This character is pronounced like the poo in spook. Its vowel sound may also be pronounced closer to the one in book. Once again, to achieve a fuller or longer sound, a dot is placed above the vowel.

Accompanied by the overhead dot, it now sounds like the poo in spoon. Memorize its shape as you repeat its sound, again paying attention to the direction in which it points. Only one character left!

ᐸ ᐹ

The plain form on the left is pronounced like the pu in sputter or the pa in spat. The dotted one on the right has a fuller and longer sound, courtesy of the overhead dot. This one sounds like the pa in spam. Memorize the shape and the direction in which this last character points. You have now learned a complete set!

ᐯ       ᐱ       ᐳ       ᐸ

As you may have noticed, there are quite a few similarities between the above set and the one you’ve learned in lesson 1. For starters, both sets contain a single shape that can point in four different directions to indicate four different vowels.

This is crucial to understand!

The Cree syllabary may not contain many different shapes, but each one can be rotated in one of four directions. Once you’ve memorized the directions and their associated vowels, the rest is a piece of cake! For both sets you’ve just learn, the vowels are associated with the four cardinal directions. Here is a mnemonic device to help you remember the directions and their associated vowels.

ᐊ ᐸ ᐳ ᐅ

Now that you’ve learned two full sets and the directions in which they point, this third set below will be a breeze. Here is the first character of this set:

This character sounds like the tea of instead, never like the te in Ted or the dea in dead. Notice how this character points downwards? Do you see how a pattern is emerging? Think of the directions in which the characters of the first two sets point as you learn the following third set.

ᑌ ᑎ ᑐ ᑕ

Take your time to memorize this shape and the four directions in which it points. Listen to the audio track as many times as you need to help you remember the vowels associated with its four directions. You have now learned all the cardinal characters, meaning those that point in the four cardinal directions! Here they are assembled in the mnemonic device seen above.

ᐊ ᐸ ᑕ ᑐ ᐳ ᐅ

Remember that fuller or longer vowels can be indicated on the last three members of each of these three sets using an overhead dot. A final w indicated by the superscript circle may also follow any of these characters.

Now, let’s practice reading a few words!

1. This first one is a small creature that lives in wet places, can you make out its name?


2. This next one is how a child would talk about sleeping. Can you figure it out?


3. What would you tell a child who is standing on his chair?


4. If you don’t want someone to leave without you, what might you say?


You’ve only learned two new shapes and already you’re reading a bunch of new words! Let’s keep going, shall we?

You may have noticed how the above sets all feature syllables containing a consonant sound along with a vowel sound. In order to write a consonant sound without any accompanying vowel, the last character of any set is spelled as a superscript symbol. Notice how these superscript characters are identical to the last character of the sets you’ve just learned.

ᐯ, ᐱ, ᐳ, ᐸ, ᑉ
ᑌ, ᑎ, ᑐ, ᑕ, ᑦ

Here are two words that you can now read that make use of these smaller consonantal symbols. The first one means when he is laughing and the second one means around.

ᐁ ᐹᐦᐱᑦ

There remains one final symbol to review – the initial dot seen in lesson 1. As you may recall, placing this dot in front of a character produces an initial w. This poses no problem for the vowel set learned in lesson 1 since the w simply precedes any of the vowels that follow it. But what about the sets you’ve learned in the above lesson?

When a dot precedes a character that is composed of a consonantal sound followed by a vowel sound, the w is pronounced between the consonant and vowel. The following word means he is telling the truth. Try to read it to understand how the initial dot indicates that a vowel is pronounced within a syllable.


In this lesson, you have learned to read ten characters, eight of which represented a combination of a consonant sound and a vowel sound, and two of which were plain consonants. You’ve also learned that the vowels associated with these characters can be lengthened by the addition of an overhead dot. You’ve seen how the final superscript circle indicates that a w is pronounced after the character and you’ve also seen how an initial dot indicates that a w must be pronounced between the consonant sound and the vowel sound associated with each character. More importantly, you’ve learned that the three first sets of characters all pattern according to the cardinal directions and that the vowels associated with these directions remain constant from one set to the next. Having learned all this has allowed you to read the following words:

ᐁ ᐊᐱᑦ
ᐁ ᐹᐦᐱᑦ

And many more!

Reading Syllabics: Lesson 1


Many go through life never knowing how to read in Cree, some having assumed that syllabics must be too difficult to acquire. Nothing can be further from the truth! Syllabics are an intuitive writing system that can be acquired with little effort, so long as that effort be consistent. Once acquired, a whole new world opens up to the reader. Aside from being able to read signs, posters, and pamphlets in one’s community, a wide set of Cree books will suddenly be accessible. Cree language books display a wide range of topics including cooking, education, harvesting the land, history, religion, and sacred stories. Of course, a whole set of posts on this very blog will also become intelligible. But most importantly, having learned how to read, one may eventually learn how to write – and we are in desperate need of writers! Cree literacy is a skill that can enrich one’s life immensely. So without further ado, shall we begin?

Lesson 1


In this lesson you will learn how to read the four basic vowels and how these may be marked for length. You will also learn how w‘s  and h‘s are indicated. By the end of the lesson you will be able to read a few basic, but important, Cree words! Try to memorize the individual characters and the first few words presented in this lesson.

This first character sounds like the e in bed. Memorize its shape as you repeat its sound, paying close attention to the direction in which it points. You’ve now learned to read your first Cree word, a conjunction that can be translated as that, when, or as.

This second character sounds like the h in ahead. Memorize its shape. You’ve now learned two characters that together allow you to read a second Cree word, an exclamation that means yes.


The next character looks exactly like the first one above, except that it points upwards instead of downwards.

This character has two sounds. Although it usually sounds like the i in bit, when it occurs at the beginning of a word or after the character  it will sound like the the ea in beat. Memorize its shape while paying close attention to the direction in which it points. You’ve now learned a character that allows you to read another Cree word, an exclamation that also means yes, but that is only used in northern dialects.


When a fuller or longer vowel sound is required, a dot is place above this character.

Accompanied by a dot, this vowel now sounds like the ea in bead. Notice how the ea in bead is pronounced longer than the ea in beat. You’ve now learned how to read two vowels and one consonant. You also know that a dot above a vowel indicates a longer vowel. Let’s move on!

The above character can be pronounced like the oo in book or the oo in boot. As with the previous character, the second sound will usually be heard at the beginning of a word or after an . Memorize this vowel while paying close attention to the direction in which it points.

Once again, to achieve a fuller or longer sound, a dot is placed above the vowel. Accompanied by this dot, the vowel now sounds like the oo in brood. Notice how the oo in brood sounds longer than the oo in boot. This is now the fourth Cree word you’ve learned to read! This dotted character, as you have probably guessed, means this one. Having learned the above characters, you can now also read a variant of this word, spelled as follows:


Only one vowel left to learn! Here it is followed by its dotted counterpart:

ᐊ ᐋ

The character on the left can be pronounced like the u in cup or like the a in cap. Its dotted counterpart will be pronounced like the a in cab. Notice how the a in cab is longer than the a in cap. Alone, this dotted vowel is a marker for yes/no questions. You can now read the following question, meaning Is it this one?

ᐆ ᐋ?

Of course, if the answer is affirmative, you can now read it, too!


You’ve now learned to read the four Cree vowels, three of which can be lengthened by the addition of an overhead dot. You’ve also learned one consonant. Together, these characters have already allowed you to read quite a few Cree words. It is crucial that you pay close attention to the direction in which these vowel characters point. These characters are traditionally memorized in the following order:

ᐁ       ᐃ       ᐅ       ᐊ

As you may have noticed, only the last three characters can be accompanied by the overhead dot. Another dot, however, can precede any of the above characters to indicate a preceding w.

ᐌ       ᐎ       ᐒ       ᐗ

The last three characters can simultaneously take an overhead dot, indicating a long vowel, and a preceding dot, indicating a preceding w. Knowing this will allow you to read two more Cree words: , a marker of volition that precedes verbs; and , a common response when someone has called your name or when you’ve misheard something directed at you.

We end our lesson with one final character, the final w. This character is written as a superscript circle following another character. Notice where it is placed in the following word.


The above word contains the overhead dot to indicate a long vowel and also contains both the preceding w, indicated by an initial dot, and a final w, indicated by a final superscript circle. This word, which you are now able to read, means egg. You can now also read this final word of encouragement!


In this lesson, you have learned to read seven characters – four basic vowels and one consonant. You have also learned how three of the vowel characters are lengthened by the addition of an overhead dot. Finally, you’ve learned how to read preceding w‘s, indicated by a preceding dot, and final w‘s, indicated by the final superscript circle. Having learned these basic symbols has allowed you to read the following words:


… ᐋ?

Believe it or not, this will have been the most difficult lesson to learn! In the following lessons you will learn the other consonantal characters, all of which obey the possible combinations presented above. It is therefore crucial to properly assimilate the information presented above. Read through the lesson multiple times if need be and practice writing the characters out. You can also draw a chart to memorize the directions in which the vowels point or even use cue cards to help you memorize them along with the nine words above.

Practice makes perfect!

ᐋᐱᑯᔒᔥ ᑳ ᐐᐦᑯᒋᐦᐋᑦ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤᐦ


ᒌ ᐹᔑᑖᐦᑕᐐᔥᑖᑯᐤ ᐋᐱᑯᔒᔕ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤ ᒣᒀᒡ ᐁ ᓂᐹᑦ᙮ ᐁ ᐗᐌᔅᐹᐌᔥᑳᑯᑦ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᑳᐦᒋᑎᓀᐤ ᐁ ᐐ ᒧᐙᑦ᙮ ᒌ ᓇᑐᒥᑯᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐋᐱᑯᔒᔕ ᐁᑳ ᒉ ᓂᐸᐦᐋᑦ᙮ ᐁᑳ ᒫᒃ ᓂᐸᐦᐋᑌ ᒌ ᐊᔓᑕᒫᑯᐤ ᒦᔥᑯᒡ ᒉ ᐐᒋᐦᐃᑯᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓃᑳᓂᐦᒡ᙮ ᒥᒄ ᒌ ᐅᔑᓇᐌᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤ, ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐸᒋᑎᓈᑦ᙮ ᐹᑎᒫᔒᔥ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᑳᐦᒋᑎᓂᑯᐤ ᐃᔨᓂᐤᐦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᒫᑯᐱᑎᑯᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒥᔥᑎᑯᐦᒡ᙮ ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᑳ ᐯᐦᑕᐙᑦ ᐋᐱᑯᔒᔥ ᐁ ᒨᔅᑰᐦᐱᓀᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤᐦ, ᒌ ᓈᒋᐸᐦᐁᐤ ᒉ ᐸᔅᑲᐦᑕᒸᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᐱᓯᔨᐤ ᒉᒌ ᐐᐦᑯᒋᐦᐋᑦ᙮ ᒋᒌ ᐅᔑᓇᐎᓐ ᐊᓄᐦᒌᐦᑳᓐ ᐁ ᒌ ᐃᑌᔨᒥᔭᓐ ᒉᔥᑎᓈᔥ ᐁᑳ ᒉ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐐᒋᐦᐃᑖᓐ, ᒌ ᐃᑌᐤ, ᐊᓄᐦᒌᔥ ᒫᒃ ᒋᒋᔅᒉᔨᐦᑌᓐ ᐋᑦ ᐁ ᐋᐱᑯᔒᔑᐎᔮᓐ ᔮᐱᒡ ᒋᑲ ᒌ ᐐᒋᐦᐃᑎᓐ

ᓃᔑᑣᐌᓂᒡ ᐲᓯᒧᒡ


ᐯᔭᒀᐤ ᐁ ᓃᐱᓂᔨᒡ ᒌ ᒥᔻᑕᒧᒡ ᒥᓯᐌ ᐊᐌᓰᓴᒡ ᐁ ᓃᔓᑳᐸᐎᔨᑣᐤᐦ ᐲᓯᒶ᙮ ᑌᐦᑌᐗᒡ ᐌᔥᑕᐐᔭᐙᐤ ᒌ ᒥᔻᑕᒧᒡ᙮ ᐯᔭᒄ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᐃᑕᔑᑣᐤ ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ, ᒋ ᒌᔥᑴᓈᐙᐤ ᐋ? ᒉᒀᓐ ᐌᐦᒋ ᒥᔻᑕᒣᒄ? ᐋᔥ ᑌᐯᔨᐦᑖᑯᓯᐤ ᐯᔭᒄ ᐲᓯᒽ ᒉᒌ ᐹᐦᒀᓴᐦᒃ ᑳ ᐊᔑᔥᒌᐙᑲᒫᔑᔨᒀᐤᐦ᙮ ᐐᒋᒫᑌ ᒫᒃ ᐃᔅᑴᐤᐦ ᐁᒄ ᐅᑕᐙᔑᒥᔑᑣᐌᓂᒡ, ᓈᔥᑖᐺ ᒋᑲ ᒪᒋᐸᔨᓈᓇᐤ!

ᒪᐦᒉᔑᐤ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐋᐦᐋᓯᐤ

Rousseau_renardᐋᐦᐋᓯᐤ ᒌ ᐊᑯᓰᐤ ᒥᔥᑎᑯᐦᒡ ᐁ ᑕᐦᑯᐦᑕᐦᒃ ᐅᔮᓯᔨᐤ ᑳ ᒋᒧᑎᑦ᙮ ᒪᐦᒉᔑᐤᐦ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐙᐸᒥᑯᑦ ᒌ ᓇᑕᐌᔨᐦᑕᒫᑯᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐅᔮᓯᒻ ᑳ ᑕᐦᑯᐦᑕᐦᒃ᙮ ᐁ ᓃᐸᐎᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᔒᐹᔮᐦᑎᑯᐦᒡ ᒌ ᐊᑎ ᐐᐦᑕᒫᑯᐤ ᐊᓐ ᐋᐦᐋᓯᐤ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᒥᔪᓈᑯᓯᑦ᙮

ᒌᔾ ᒋᐸ ᓃᑳᓀᔨᐦᑖᑯᓰᔥᑕᐙᐗᒡ ᑯᑕᑲᒡ ᐱᔦᔒᔕᒡ, ᒌ ᐃᑎᑯᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᒉᔑᐤᐦ, ᒉᔥᑎᓈᔥ ᒋᐸ ᒌ ᓃᑳᓀᔨᐦᑖᑯᓯᓐ ᒣᔪᐦᑖᑯᓯᐗᓀ ᒥᒄ

ᓈᔥᑖᐺ ᐁ ᒌ ᓇᑕᐌᔨᒫᑦ ᒉ ᐯᐦᑖᑯᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᒉᔑᐤᐦ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᒥᔪᐦᑖᑯᓯᑦ ᒌ ᐸᒋᑕᐦᑕᒻ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐅᔮᓯᔨᐤ ᐁ ᐊᑎ ᒋᑐᑦ᙮

ᑏᐌᒡ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᓈᒋᐸᐦᑣᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒪᐦᒉᔑᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐅᔮᓯᔨᐤ ᒉᒌ ᒦᒋᑦ, ᐁᒄ ᐁᑖᑦ, ᔦᑆᐦᑳᐗᓀ ᒫᒃ ᐊᔑᒡ, ᑖᐺ ᒋᑲ ᒌ ᓃᑳᓀᔨᐦᑖᑯᓯᓐ᙮


ᑳ ᒋᐦᑎᒥᑦ ᒀᔥᑯᐦᑕᐦᐆᔥ


ᐯᔭᒀᐤ ᐁ ᐱᐳᓂᔨᒡ ᒌ ᓂᐲᐗᓂᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐅᒦᒋᒥᐙᐤ ᐅᒋᒉᓕᑰᔕᒡ᙮ ᒣᒀᒡ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᐹᓴᐦᒀᐤ ᐅᒦᒋᒥᐙᐤ ᒌ ᐯᒋ ᐸᑯᓯᐦᐃᑯᐤ ᑳ ᔒᐗᑌᔨᒡᐦ ᒀᔥᑯᐦᑕᐦᐆᔕ᙮ ᒉᒀᓐ ᐌᐦᒋ ᐁᑳ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒫᐗᒋᐦᑖᔭᓐ ᒋᒦᒋᒻ ᑳ ᓃᐱᐦᒡ, ᒬᐦᒡ ᓃᔮᓐ? ᒌ ᐃᑌᐗᒡ᙮ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᓅᐦᒋ ᐃᔅᐱᔒᓐ, ᒌ ᐃᑎᑯᐤ, ᓂᒌ ᐅᑕᒥ ᓂᑲᒧᓐ᙮ ᑖᐺ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐅᔑᓇᐌᐗᒡ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᒀᔥᑯᐦᑕᐦᐆᔕ ᑳ ᐃᑎᑯᑣᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᐁᑖᑣᐤ, ᐁ ᒌ ᓂᑲᒧᔭᓐ ᑳ ᓃᐱᐦᒡ, ᓃᒥᐦ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᐱᐳᐦᒡ᙮

ᐁᑳ ᑳ ᓂᐸᐦᑖᑦ ᒉᒀᔨᐤ


ᒌ ᐙᐸᒣᐤ ᐙᐙᔥᑫᔑᐤᐦ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤ ᒬᐦᒡ ᐁ ᐐ ᒧᐙᑦ ᐙᐳᔡ ᑳ ᒥᔅᑲᐙᑦ ᐁ ᓂᐹᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᒌ ᓇᑲᑌᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐙᐳᔡ ᒉᒌ ᓅᔅᐱᓇᑖᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐙᐙᔥᑫᔑᐤᐦ᙮ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒫᒃ ᐙᐳᔥ ᒌ ᐗᐌᔅᐹᐌᒫᑲᓂᐎᐤ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐅᔑᒧᑦ᙮ ᓀᐎᔥ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐱᒥᑎᔕᐦᐙᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐙᐙᔥᑫᔑᐤᐦ ᒌ ᒋᔅᒉᔨᐦᑕᒻ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤ ᐁᑳ ᒉᒌ ᑳᐦᒋᑎᓈᑦ᙮ ᑳ ᐐ ᒌᐌᑐᑕᐙᑦ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐙᐳᔡ ᓇᒪᐐᔭ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒥᔅᑲᐌᐤ, ᐋᔥ ᐁ ᒌ ᐅᔑᒧᔨᒡᐦ ᐌᔥᑕᐐᔾ᙮ ᓂᒣᔮᐗᒉᔨᒧᓐ ᑖᐺ, ᒌ ᐃᑎᑎᓱᐤ, ᐁ ᒌ ᓇᑲᑕᒫᓐ ᒦᒋᒻ ᐋᔥ ᐁ ᒌ ᐊᔮᔮᓐ ᒥᒄ ᐁᑕᑕᐤ ᐁ ᐐ ᐊᔮᔮᓐ ᑯᑕᒃ ᒉᒀᓐ᙮

[ᓂᓇᓈᔅᑯᒫᐤ Carolyn Moskowitz ᑳ ᐸᒋᑎᓂᑦ ᒉ ᐋᐸᒋᐦᑖᐗᒃ ᐅᐗᔭᓯᓇᐦᐃᒉᐎᓐ᙮ ᐐ ᐙᐸᐦᑕᒧᐗᑌ ᑯᑕᒃᐦ ᒉᒀᓂᐦᐃ ᑳ ᐗᔭᓯᓇᐦᐊᐦᒃ, ᒉ ᑖᐦᑲᐦᐊᒧᐗᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐅᐗᔭᓯᓇᐦᐃᒉᐎᓐ ᒉᒌ ᓇᑕᐙᐸᐦᑕᒧᐗᑦ᙮]

ᑳ ᒪᔥᑲᐙᐦᑯᒋᑦ ᒋᓀᐱᒄ

M0015224 Plaque carved in relief showing a man and snake.

ᐯᔭᒀᐤ ᐁ ᐱᐳᓂᔨᒡ, ᒌ ᒥᔅᑲᐌᐤ ᓈᐯᐤ ᒋᓀᐱᑾ ᐁ ᒪᔥᑲᐙᐦᑯᒋᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᐁ ᒌ ᒋᑎᒫᒋᓇᐙᑦ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐅᑎᓀᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒋᓀᐱᑾ ᒉᒌ ᒌᔔᔥᑲᐙᑦ᙮ ᑳ ᐊᑎ ᐋᐸᐎᐸᔨᑦ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒋᓀᐱᒄ ᑳᐤ ᒌ ᐙᔅᑲᒣᔨᐦᑕᒻ᙮ ᑳ ᒨᔑᐦᐅᑦ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᑕᐦᑯᓈᑲᓂᐎᑦ ᒌ ᒫᑯᒣᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᑳ ᒌᔔᔥᑳᑯᑦ ᒉᒌ ᓂᐸᐦᐋᑦ᙮ ᒣᒀᒡ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᒌ ᐴᓂ ᐱᒫᑎᓰᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᓈᐯᐤ ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ, ᓂᒣᔮᐗᒉᔨᒧᓐ ᑳ ᒋᑎᒫᒉᔨᒪᒃ ᒋᓀᐱᒄ ᑳ ᒫᔮᑎᓰᑦ

ᐁᑳ ᑳ ᑾᔭᓯᑌᑦ ᒪᐦᒉᔑᐤ


ᐌᓵ ᑳ ᓃᔭᒥᓰᑦ ᒉᒌ ᓇᑕᐗᐦᐅᑦ ᑳ ᒋᔐᔮᐱᔒᐎᑦ ᒌ ᓇᑕᐌᔨᐦᑖᑯᓯᐤ ᒉ ᐋᐸᒋᐦᑖᑦ ᐅᑲᒉᐦᑖᐌᔨᐦᑕᒧᐎᓐ ᒉᒌ ᐊᔕᒥᑎᓱᑦ᙮ ᒌ ᓇᑕᐎ ᐱᒥᔑᓄ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐁ ᐐᐦᐱᓭᑳᔨᒡ ᐁ ᐋᐦᑯᓰᐦᑳᓱᑦ᙮ ᑳ ᐯᒋ ᓇᑕᐙᐸᒥᑯᑦ ᒫᒃ ᐊᐌᓰᓴ ᒌ ᑳᐦᒋᑕᒣᐤ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᒧᐙᑦ᙮

ᒪᐦᒉᔑᐤ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᓂᓯᑕᐎᓇᒻ ᑖᓐ ᑳ ᐃᔑ ᓂᔑᐗᓈᒋᐦᐋᑲᓂᐎᔨᑣᐤᐦ ᑯᑕᒃᐦ ᐊᐌᓰᓴ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐯᒋ ᐗᔭᐐᑳᐸᐎᑦ ᒉ ᑲᑴᒋᒫᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤᐦ, ᑖᓐ ᐁᑕᒪᐦᒋᐦᐅᔭᓐ?

ᓂᒪᒐᒪᐦᒋᐦᐅᓐ, ᒌ ᐃᑎᑯᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤᐦ, ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑲᑴᒋᒥᑯᑦ, ᒉᒀᓐ ᐌᐦᒋ ᐁᑳ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᔭᓐ? 

ᓂᐸ ᒌ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᓐ, ᐃᑌᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒪᐦᒉᔑᐤ, ᓂᐙᐸᐦᑕᒸᓐ ᒫᒃ ᒥᐦᒉᑦ ᐁ ᒌ ᑾᔭᓯᑌᔅᑲᓇᐌᑣᐤ, ᓇᒪᐧᐄᔾ ᒫᒃ ᓂᐧᐋᐸᐦᑕᐧᒫᓐ ᑳᐤ ᐁ ᒌ ᐯᒋ ᐗᔭᐐᔅᑲᓇᐌᐙᑯᐸᓀ᙮

ᑳ ᐯᔭᑰᔐᑦ

Picture 4

ᒌ ᐅᔑᓇᐌᐤ ᓅᔐᐦᒉᔑᐤ ᐁ ᐯᔭᑰᔐᔨᒡᐦ ᒥᒄ ᓅᔐ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤᐦ᙮ ᑖᐺ ᒥᒄ ᓂᐯᔭᑰᔐᓐ, ᒌ ᐃᑌᐤ, ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤ ᒫᒃ ᓂᑦ ᐊᔮᐙᐤ᙮

ᐊᐌᓐ ᒫᐗᒡ ᒣᔥᑲᐐᑦ



ᐯᔭᒀᐤ ᐁ ᐐᒉᐎᑐᑣᐤ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐃᔨᓂᐤ ᐁ ᐱᒧᐦᑌᑣᐤ ᒌ ᒫᒥᐦᒋᒥᑎᓱᐗᒡ ᑖᐱᔥᑯᓐ᙮ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒫᒃ ᐅᐦᐱᒣᔅᑲᓇᐤ ᒌ ᒪᓯᓈᐱᔅᒋᔑᓄ ᐊᓯᓃᐦᒡ ᐃᔨᓂᐤ ᑳ ᒋᐳᑖᒥᓈᑦ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤᐦ᙮ ᒌ ᐊᑐᐦᐌᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᐃᔨᓂᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᓯᓃᐦ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᑖᑦ, ᒋ ᐙᐸᐦᑌᓐ ᐋ? ᐁᑕᑕᐤ ᓂᒪᔥᑲᐐᓈᓐ ᓃᔮᓐ ᐃᔨᓂᐗᒡ ᐃᔅᐱᔖᑦ ᒌᔭᐙᐤ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐗᒡ᙮ ᒌ ᐹᐦᐱᐦᑴᔨᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᓇᔥᑴᐗᔑᐦᐋᑦ ᐁ ᐃᑖᑦ, ᑲᔥᒋᐦᐅᐙᑴᓂᒡ ᐌᔥᑕᐐᔭᐙᐤ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐗᒡ ᐁ ᒪᓯᓈᑕᐦᐃᒉᑣᐤ ᒉᔥᑕᒌᔾ ᒋᐸ ᐙᐸᒫᐤ ᒫᓐᐦ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤ ᐁ ᓂᐸᐦᐋᑦ ᐃᔨᓂᐤᐦ᙮



For over two thousand years the Our Father has enjoyed the distinction of being Christianity’s most venerated prayer. It is after all the only prayer Jesus would have taught his disciples, which is perhaps why reciting its words is the only ritual in which all believing Christians partake, despite the schismatic history of their religion.

When European Christians first reached the shores of this continent, they set about learning Cree to share the gospel with our people. Naturally, the Our Father was one of the first prayers taught and its numerous translations since the seventeenth century have also come to be venerated by Cree-speaking Christians. To this day its Cree translations are recited as opening and closing prayers at public assemblies and are taught to school children in Cree communities, much to the consternation of parents who expect a non-religious curriculum! But what exactly is the Our Father? What follows is a brief history of this timeless prayer and its translations into the Cree language, with a particular focus on John Horden’s translation, the version best known around the bay we call Wînipekw (James Bay).

The prayer commonly referred to as the Our Father is also known as the Lord’s Prayer and the Pater Noster. Two versions of the prayer are recorded in the Gospels, a short version in Luke and a longer one, considered the liturgical form, in Matthew. Although all churches are unanimous on this last point, Protestants tend to conclude the prayer with a doxology not endorsed by Catholics.

The Our Father would have originally been recited in Aramaic, the language Jesus presumably spoke (Aramaic was a Semitic language related to Hebrew and Arabic). Although Aramaic manuscripts of what would later become the New Testament have survived through the ages, the English translations of the prayer are not based on these, but rather on early Greek and Latin translations. Despite the numerous attempts at translating the prayer into English, one version stands out as the popular liturgical form (though not necessarily the most accurate). This popular version reads as follows:

Our Father who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
and forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive those who trespass against us,
and lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.

[Protestants then add the above mentioned doxology, as follows]

For thine is the kingdom,
the power, and the glory,
for ever and ever.

The earliest extant Cree translation of this timeless prayer was published in 1632 along with other short prayers and religious instructions attributed to the Jesuit Énemond Massé. His translation lacks the beauty of later attempts, but its introduction, however, would anticipate later translations. “Novtavynan ca tayen ouascoupetz,” Massé would write (the intrusive p might have erroneously crept in during the printing process). Indecipherable as his translation may initially seem, the introduction, when the spelling is standardized, becomes a clear Nôhtâwînân kâ ihtâyan waskohc.

Many missionaries would succeed Massé after his death in 1646. Their work among Cree-speaking peoples would have led them to produce various types of writings in the Cree language, many of which were undoubtedly religious in nature. Most of these, however, would have perished in a fire in 1699 in Chicoutimi. Consequently, the next extant Cree translation of the Our Father is found in a manuscript dated 1728 and attributed to the Jesuit Pierre-Michel Laure. Aided by a Cree-speaking woman named Pêšâpanohkwew, later baptized Marie, Laure would also compile an extensive French to Cree dictionary and various other Cree-language materials, some of which have unfortunately been lost. His translation of the Our Father would eventually be printed in 1767 in a religious book compiled by his successor, the Jesuit Jean-Baptiste de La Brosse. In this book, which is often credited as the first book printed in Canada, La Brosse would be the first to provide the prayer with a Cree name, “K’utshimaminau u-t-aiamiheuin,”  a translation of ‘our Lord’s prayer.’ Laure’s translation is notable in that it would continued to be printed into the mid-nineteenth century, being recited for over a century by eastern Cree-speaking peoples.

As Cree country became increasingly accessible to foreigners in the nineteenth century, missionaries from various churches would start drawing our people into distinctive denominations. Anglicans, Methodists, and Catholics would all be involved, many of their missionaries providing new translations of the Our Father. The Oblate Flavien Durocher would publish his version in 1848, which would become the standard form in the eastern regions of Cree country into the twentieth-century. His translation would be republished in 1889 by the Oblate Charles Arnaud in his book of prayers. In the west, Jean-Baptiste Thibault would publish his translation in 1855. His would also become a standard that would be republished by Albert Lacombe, an Oblate who would also compile an extensive dictionary and grammar of the Cree language.

Protestant denominations would become increasingly active in the nineteenth century. The first Anglican translation of the Our Father can be attributed to the James Hunter and his wife Jean Ross, the latter of whom had learned to speak Cree as a child. The prayer would have first been included in their translation of the Gospel of Matthew, published in 1853. It would then be republished in their translation of the Book of Common Prayer in 1855 and would go on to become the inspiration for successive protestant translations of the prayer in the western regions of Cree country. The version of the Our Father in the New Testament in Western Cree (2000) would largely be based on the couple’s initial translation. Being a protestant version, its version and all subsequent protestant translations would naturally include the doxology absent from earlier Catholic translations.

In the central regions of Cree country, around the bay we call Wînipekw, a contemporary of James Hunter would also endeavour to communicate the gospel to our people using the written word. The Anglican John Horden, known to Cree people as John Moosonee to this day, would eventually produce numerous publications in the Cree language, including a grammar. Horden’s translation of the Our Father into the local dialect would be published in 1859 as part of his translation of the Book of Common Prayer. It would first be published in the western syllabics style and it reads as follows:

ᓄᑖᐎᓈᐣ, ᑭᒋᑭᔑᑯᐠ ᑳ ᐃᑖᔭᐣ,
ᑲᐟᑕ ᐎ ᒥᓗ ᒥᑐᓀᓕᒋᑳᑌᐤ ᑭᐟ ᐃᔑᓂᑳᓱᐎᐣ᙮
ᑭᐟ ᐅᑭᒫᐎᐎᐣ ᑲᐟᑕ ᐎ ᐅᑎᒋᐸᓕᐤ᙮
ᐁ ᐃᔑ ᓇᑕᐌᓕᑕᒪᐣ ᑲᐟᑕ ᐎ ᑐᒋᑳᑌᐤ ᐅᑕ ᐊᐢᑮᐠ, ᑖᐱᐢᑯᐨ ᑭᒋᑭᔑᑯᐠ᙮
ᒥᓕᓈᐣ ᐊᓄᐨ ᑳ ᑭᔑᑳᐠ ᑫ ᐅᐟᒋ ᐱᒫᑎᓯᔮᐠ᙮
ᐌᐯᓕᑕᒪᐎᓈᐣ ᒫᑲ ᓂ ᐗᓂᑎᐎᓂᓈᓇ,
ᐁ ᐃᔑ ᐌᐯᓕᑕᒪᐗᑭᒋᒃ ᐊᓂᑭ ᑳ ᐗᓂᑐᑕᐎᔭᒥᒋᒃ᙮
ᓀᐡᑕ ᒫᑲ ᐁᑳ ᐎᓚ ᐃᑐᑕᐁᓈᐣ ᑫ ᐃᔑ ᑲᑴᒋᐃᑳᐎᔮᐠ;
ᒥᑖᑴᓇᒪᐎᓈᐣ ᒫᑲ ᒪᒋ ᑫᒀᓇ:
ᐌᓴ ᑭᓚ ᑭᐟ ᐋᔮᐣ ᑭᒋ ᐅᑭᒫᐎᐎᐣ,
ᓀᐡᑕ ᓱᑳᑎᓯᐎᐣ, ᓀᐡᑕ ᒫᒥᒋᒥᑳᐎᐣ,
ᑳᑭᑫ ᓀᐡᑕ ᑳᑭᑫ᙮

Horden would eventually endeavour to simplify the syllabic spelling system and subsequent reprints of his works would all feature what is now called eastern syllabics. Aside from a change in orthography, his subsequent version of the prayer, published within his 1876 translation of the New Testament, would also feature a few lexical changes, improving the beauty of the translation. He would, however, take a literal approach to its translation, which would have him favour the word ‘debts’ to ‘trespasses,’ resulting in a replacement of “ ᐗᓂᑎᐎᓂᓈᓇ” and “ ᐗᓂᑐᑕᐎᔭᒥᒋᒃ” by “ ᒪᓯᓇᐃᑲᓂᓈᓇ” and “ ᒪᓯᓇᐃᑫᑐᑕᐎᔭᒥᒋᒃ,” respectively. The translation from Matthew 6:9-13 thus reads as follows:

ᓄᑖᐎᓈᓐ ᑭᒋᑭᔑᑯᒃ ᑳ ᐃᑖᔭᓐ
ᑲᑕ ᐎ ᐸᓓᑫᓕᒋᑳᑌᐤ ᑭᑦ ᐃᔑᓂᑳᓱᐎᓐ᙮
ᑭᑦ ᐅᑭᒫᐎᐎᓐ ᑲᑕ ᐎ ᐅᑎᒋᐸᓕᐤ᙮
ᐁ ᐃᑌᓕᑕᒪᓐ ᑲᑕ ᐎ ᑐᒋᑳᑌᐤ ᐅᑕ ᐊᔅᑮᒃ ᑖᐱᔅᑯᒡ ᑭᒋᑭᔑᑯᒄ᙮
ᒥᓕᓈᓐ ᐊᓄᒡ ᑳ ᑭᔑᑳᒃ ᑫ ᐅᒋ ᐱᒫᑎᓯᔮᒃ᙮
ᐌᐯᓕᑕᒪᐎᓈᓐ ᒫᑲ ᓂ ᒪᓯᓇᐃᑲᓂᓈᓇ,
ᐁ ᐃᔑ ᐌᐯᓕᑕᒪᐗᑭᒋᒃ ᐊᓂᑭ ᑳ ᒪᓯᓇᐃᑫᑐᑕᐎᔭᒥᒋᒃ᙮
ᐁᑳᐎᓚ ᒫᑲ ᐃᑐᑕᐃᓈᓐ ᑫ ᐃᔑ ᑲᑴᒋᐃᑲᐎᔮᒃ,
ᒫᑲ ᒥᑖᑴᓇᒪᐎᓈᓐ ᒪᒋ ᑫᒀᓇ:
ᐌᓴ ᑭᓚ ᑭ ᑎᐱᓚᐌᐎᓯᓐ ᐅᑭᒪᐎᐎᓐ,
ᓀᔥᑕ ᑲᔥᑭᐅᐎᓐ, ᓀᔥᑕ ᑭᔥᑌᓕᑖᑯᓯᐎᓐ,

Horden’s 1889 edition of the Book of Common Prayer would feature yet more changes to the Our Father. His last modifications to the doxology were retained, but the literal translation of ‘debts’ was reverted to his original translation of ‘trespasses.’ Curiously, Horden changes his translation of ‘hallowed be thy name’ for a third time, finally settling on ᑲᑕ ᐎ ᑭᔅᑌᓕᒋᑳᑌᐤ ᑭᑦ ᐃᔑᓂᑳᓱᐎᓐ. This third version of the prayer reads as follows:

ᓄᑕᐎᓈᓐ ᑭᒋᑭᔑᑯᒃ ᑳ ᐃᑖᔭᓐ,
ᑲᑕ ᐎ ᑭᔅᑌᓕᒋᑳᑌᐤ ᑭᑦ ᐃᔑᓂᑳᓱᐎᓐ᙮
ᑭᑦ ᐅᑭᒫᐎᐎᓐ ᑲᑕ ᐎ ᐅᑎᒋᐸᓕᐤ᙮
ᑭᑦ ᐃᑌᓕᑕᒧᐎᓐ ᑲᑕ ᐎ ᑐᒋᑳᑌᐤ ᐅᑕ ᐊᔅᑮᒃ ᑖᐱᔅᑯᒡ ᑭᒋᑭᔑᑯᒃ᙮
ᒥᓕᓈᓐ ᐊᓄᒡ ᑳ ᑭᔑᑳᒃ ᑫ ᐅᒋ ᐱᒫᑎᓯᔮᒃ᙮
ᐌᐯᓕᑕᒪᐎᓈᓐ ᒫᑲ ᓂ ᐗᓂᑎᐎᓂᓈᓇ,
ᐁ ᐃᔑ ᐌᐯᓕᑕᒪᐗᑭᒋᒃ ᐊᓂᑭ ᑳ ᐗᓂᑐᑕᐎᔭᒥᒋᒃ᙮
ᐁᑳᐎᓚ ᒫᑲ ᐃᑐᑕᐃᓈᓐ ᑫ ᐃᔑ ᑲᑴᒋᐃᑲᐎᔮᒃ;
ᒫᑲ ᒥᑖᑴᓇᒪᐎᓈᓐ ᒪᒋ ᑫᒀᓇ:
ᐌᓴ ᑭᓚ ᑭ ᑎᐱᓚᐌᐎᓯᓐ ᐅᑭᒫᐎᐎᓐ,
ᓀᔥᑕ ᑲᔥᑭᐅᐎᓐ, ᓀᔥᑕ ᑭᔅᑌᓕᑖᑯᓯᐎᓐ,
ᑳᑭᑫ ᓀᔥᑕ ᑳᑭᑫ᙮

Horden’s third translation of the Our Father would eventually be adapted to the dialects spoken around Chisasibi by W.G. Walton. Walton’s translation would be printed in 1907 in his Portions of the Book of Common Prayer, edited and reprinted in 1943. The latter reads as follows:

ᓄᑖᐎᓈᓐ ᒋᒋᒋᔑᑯᒡ ᐋᑖᔭᓐ,
ᑲᑕ ᐎ ᒋᔅᑖᔨᑖᑲᓂᐎᐤ ᒋᑦ ᐃᔑᓂᑳᓱᐎᓐ᙮
ᒋ ᒋᒋᐅᒋᒪᐎᐎᓐ ᑲᑕ ᐅᑎᒋᐸᔨᐤ᙮
ᒋᑦ ᐃᑖᔨᑕᒧᐎᓐ ᑲᑕ ᑐᑖᑲᓂᐎᐤ, ᐅᑕ ᐊᔅᒋᒡ ᒧᔮᒻ ᒋᒋᒋᔑᑯᒡ᙮
ᒥᔨᓈᓐ ᐋᓄᒡ ᑳᔑᑳᒡ ᒑ ᐅᒋ ᐱᒫᑎᓯᔮᒡ᙮
ᐙᐹᔨᑕᒪᐎᓈᓐ ᒫᑲ ᓂ ᐗᓈᔨᑎᐎᓂᓈᓇ,
ᒧᔮᒻ ᐋ ᐃᔑ ᐙᐹᔨᑕᒪᐗᒋᒡ ᐊᓐᒡ ᑳ ᐗᓂᑐᑕᐎᔭᒥᒡ᙮
ᐋᑳᐎᔭ ᒫᑲ ᐃᑐᑕᐃᓈᓐ ᐊᑕ ᒑ ᑲᒀᒋᐃᑲᐎᔮᒡ,
ᒥᑯ ᒥᑖᒀᓇᒪᐎᓈᓐ ᐊᓐ ᑳ ᒫᔮᑕᒡ᙮
ᐙᓴ ᒋᔭ ᒋ ᑎᐱᔭᐙᐎᓯᓐ ᒋᒋᐅᒋᒫᐎᐎᓐ,
ᑲᔭ ᑲᔅᒋᐅᐎᓐ, ᑲᔭ ᒋᔅᑖᔨᑖᑯᓯᐎᓐ, ᒧᔥ ᑳᒋᒡ᙮

While Walton’s translations would become the standard recited form for Cree-speaking peoples around Chisasibi, Horden’s translations would continue to be the standard from the west coast of the bay to Mistissini well into the late twentieth century, despite the fact that the dialects spoken in the east are quite divergent from the more conservative dialect featured in Horden’s translations. This problem would eventually lead to the retranslation of the New Testament into the local dialect, which was published in 2001 and naturally included a new version of the Our Father. While this modern translation is commendable for being easier for local speakers to read, some expert speakers took issue with its inconsistent orthography, the colloquial feel of its vocabulary, and its tendency of being wordy. Its version of the Our Father is clearly influenced by Horden’s, but departs considerably from it, being neither a dialectal adaptation of it nor a literal translation of any known English version. This perhaps explains why Horden’s translation continues to be used by some speakers performing opening and closing prayers in public forums. This new translation, from Matthew, reads as follows:

ᓅᐦᑖᐐᓈᓐ ᑭᐦᒋᑮᔑᑯᐦᒡ ᑳ ᐃᐦᑖᔨᓐ,
ᓂᑕᔨᒥᐦᐋᓈᓐ ᒋᑎᔑᓂᐦᑳᓱᐎᓐ ᒉᒌ ᒋᔅᒉᔨᐦᑖᑯᓅᐦᒡ ᐁ ᒋᔅᑌᔨᐦᑖᑯᐦᒡ᙮
ᓂᑕᔨᒥᐦᐋᓈᓐ ᑲᔦ ᒎᒋᒫᐎᓐ ᒉ ᐅᑎᐦᒋᐸᔨᐦᒡ,
ᑲᔦ ᒋᑎᑌᔨᐦᑕᒧᐎᓐ ᒉᒌ ᐃᐦᑑᑖᑲᓅᐦᒡ ᐅᑕᐦ ᐊᔅᒌᐦᒡ ᒧᔮᒻ ᐁ ᐃᔑ ᐃᐦᑑᑖᑲᓅᐦᒡ ᐊᓂᑌ ᑭᐦᒋᑮᔑᑯᐦᒡ᙮
ᒦᓈᓐ ᐋᐃᐦᑯᓈᐤ ᐊᓄᐦᒌᔥ ᑳ ᒌᔑᑳᒡ ᑖᓐ ᐁ ᐃᔑ ᓂᑐᐌᔨᒪᒋᐦᑦ᙮
ᐌᐯᔨᐦᑕᒨᓈᓐ ᓂᒪᒋᐦᑣᐎᓈᓐᐦ
ᒧᔮᒻ ᑖᓐ ᑳ ᐃᔑ ᐌᐯᔨᐦᑕᒧᐗᒋᐦᑣᐤ ᐊᓂᒌ ᑳ ᐗᓂᑑᑑᔨᒥᐦᑣᐤ᙮
ᐁᑳᐐ ᒫᒃ ᐃᑐᐦᑕᐦᐄᓈᓐ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒉᒌ ᑲᑴᒋᐦᐄᑯᔮᐦᒡ᙮
ᐯᒋ ᑲᓄᐌᔨᒥᓈᓐ ᑖᓐ ᐙ ᐃᔑ ᑲᑴᒋᐦᐄᑯᔮᐦᒡ ᒪᒋᒪᓂᑑ᙮
ᐌᔥ ᒋᔭ ᒋᑎᐱᔦᐅᓯᔨᓐ ᒎᒋᒫᐎᓐ
ᑲᔦ ᒋᔭ ᒋᑕᔮᓐ ᓲᐦᑳᑎᓰᐎᓐ ᑲᔦ ᒋᔅᑌᔨᐦᑖᑯᓱᐎᓐ
ᑳᒋᒉ ᑲᔦ ᑳᒋᒉ᙮

In 2007 the New Testament was again translated into Cree, this time in the dialect spoken at Kawawachikamach. While this translation is clearly influenced by the 2001 translation mentioned above, it is less wordy and has retained more vocabulary from Horden’s later translations. It also features a local style of syllabics where long vowels and aspirates are unmarked. From the Book of Matthew, this translation reads as follows:

ᓄᑕᐎᓇᓐ ᒋᒋᒋᓯᑯᒡ ᐊ ᑕᔨᓐ,
ᓂᑦ ᐊᔭᒥᐊᓇᓐ ᒋᑦ ᐃᓯᓂᑾᓱᐅᓐ ᐊ ᐸᔭᒋᓯᒥᑲᒡ ᒐᒋ ᒋᔅᑕᔨᑕᑯᑕᑭᓄᐅᒡ᙮
ᒋᒋᓴᐅᒋᒪᐅᓐ ᒋᑭ ᐎ ᐅᑎᒋᐱᔪᐤ,
ᒋᑦ ᐃᑕᔨᑎᒧᐅᓐ ᒋᑭ ᐎ ᐃᑐᑕᑭᓄᐤ ᐅᑕ ᐊᔅᒋᒡ ᒧᔭᒻ ᒋᒋᒋᓯᑯᒡ᙮
ᒥᔨᓇᓐ ᐊᓄᒡ ᐊ ᒋᓯᑲᒡ ᐸᒂᓯᑭᓐ ᒐᐅᒋ ᐱᒪᑎᓯᔭᒡ᙮
ᐛᐸᔨᑎᒧᐅᓇᓐ ᓂᒥᒋᑥᐅᓇᓇ
ᐛᔅ ᑭᔭ ᓂᔭᓐ ᓂ ᐛᐸᔨᑎᒧᐅᓇᓐ ᒥᓯᐛ ᐊᐛᓐ ᑲ ᒥᒋᑐᑐᔨᒥᑦ᙮
ᐊᑲᐎᔾ ᒪᒃ ᐃᑐᑕᐃᓇᓐ ᐊᓐᑕ ᒐᒋ ᐃᓯ ᑯᒂᒋᐃᑯᔭᒡ᙮
ᒥᒄ ᐸᒋ ᒥᑕᒂᓇᒧᐅᓇᓐ ᐊᓐ ᑲ ᒪᔭᑕᒡ᙮
ᐛᔅ ᒋᔾ ᒋ ᑎᐱᔨᐛᐅᓯᓐ ᐅᒋᒪᐅᓐ
ᑭᔭ ᑭᔅᒋᐅᓐ ᑭᔭ ᒋᔅᑕᔨᑕᑯᓱᐅᓐ
ᒧᔅ ᑲᒋᒡ, ᐊᒥᓐ᙮

Horden’s translations of the Our Father are still recited to this day and continue to influence contemporary translations. Their popularity can probably be attributed to a number of factors, one of which is certainly the timeless appeal of the prayer itself. However, Horden’s later versions were also eloquently translated. This points to the likely possibility that he benefited from the support of his local assistants, all of which were native Cree speakers. But Horden’s translations, important as they may be, are but a few out of the countless versions of the Our Father that have been translated into the Cree language since the early seventeenth century. In fact, even though the majority of these translations can be attributed to foreigners who were neither Cree nor native speakers of the Cree language, every one of them benefited in some way from the help of Cree speakers themselves. And while competing churches and dialects have made it so there are nearly as many Cree version of the Our Father as there are English versions, Cree-speaking Christians can find comfort in the knowledge that the recital of this prayer is the one ritual they can all agree upon.

ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐤ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ


ᒌ ᐃᐦᑖᐗᒡ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔥ ᓀᔥᑦ ᒋᔐᐃᔨᓂᐤ ᑳ ᐐᒋᑣᐤ ᐁ ᐊᐱᔖᔑᔨᒡ ᐙᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒌᑳᔅᒄ᙮ ᒋᐸ ᒌ ᒥᔯᔨᐦᑕᒧᒡ, ᒥᒄ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐅᐦᒋᐦᐃᑯᐗᒡ ᒉᒀᔨᐤ – ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒌ ᐊᔮᐌᐗᒡ ᐊᐙᔑᔕ ᐋᑕ ᓈᔥᒡ ᐁ ᒌ ᓇᑕᐌᔨᒫᑣᐤ᙮ ᐯᔭᒀᐤ, ᑳ ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐦᒉᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔥ, ᒌ ᐊᔨᑎᔗᐤ ᐅᑦᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᒻᐦ ᒬᐦᒡ ᓈᐯᔑᔑᐦᒡ ᒉᒌ ᐃᔑᓈᑯᓯᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐲᐦᑖᐱᔅᑲᐙᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐅᑦᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᒻᐦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒋᔖᐱᔅᒋᓵᐙᓂᐦᒡ᙮ ᒦᓐ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐋᐸᐦᐙᑦ ᒋᔖᐱᔅᒋᓵᐙᓐᐦ ᐁ ᓇᑕᐙᐦᐋᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐤ ᓈᐯᔑᔕ, ᒌ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐗᔭᐐ ᒀᔥᑯᐦᑎᔨᐤᐦ ᐁ ᒋᐦᒋᐸᐦᑖᔨᒡᐦ᙮

ᒌ ᑌᑆᑌᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔥ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐅᓈᐯᒻᐦ ᒉ ᓅᓱᓀᐦᐙᑣᐤ᙮ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐊᑎᒥᓀᐦᐌᐗᒡ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐅᑎᐦᑖᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐤ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ ᒥᐦᒉᑦ ᐸᐗᐦᐃᒉᓯᐤᐦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐸᐗᐦᐃᒉᐎᑲᒥᑯᐦᒡ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑌᑆᑖᑦ ᒣᒀᒡ ᐁ ᒥᔮᐎᐸᐦᑖᑦ ᐁ ᐃᑖᑦ,

ᓂᒌ ᓇᑲᒋᐸᐦᐋᐗᒡ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔥ ᓀᔥᑦ ᒋᔐᐃᔨᓂᐤ᙮ ᒉᔥᑕᒌᔭᐙᐤ ᒋᑲ ᒌ ᓇᑲᒋᐸᐦᐃᑎᓈᐙᐤ!

ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐊᑎ ᓅᓱᓀᐦᐙᑣᐤ ᑳ ᒥᐦᒉᑎᑣᐤ ᐸᐗᐦᐃᒉᓯᐗᒡ᙮ ᐋᑕ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒋᔒᐸᐦᑖᑣᐤ, ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒌ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐊᑎᒥᓀᐦᐌᐗᒡ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐅᑎᐦᑖᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ ᒥᐦᒉᑦ ᓅᑕᔥᑯᔑᐌᓯᐤᐦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓂᐦᑕᐎᒋᐦᒋᑲᓂᐦᒡ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑌᑆᑖᑦ ᒣᒀᒡ ᐁ ᒥᔮᐎᐸᐦᑖᑦ ᐁ ᐃᑖᑦ,

ᓂᒌ ᓇᑲᒋᐸᐦᐋᐗᒡ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔥ, ᒋᔐᐃᔨᓂᐤ, ᓀᔥᑦ ᐸᐗᐦᐃᒉᓯᐗᒡ᙮ ᒉᔥᑕᒌᔭᐙᐤ ᒋᑲ ᒌ ᓇᑲᒋᐸᐦᐃᑎᓈᐙᐤ!

ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐊᑎ ᓅᓱᓀᐦᐙᑣᐤ ᑳ ᒥᐦᒉᑎᑣᐤ ᓅᑕᔥᑯᔑᐌᓯᐗᒡ᙮ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐊᑎᒥᓀᐦᐌᐗᒡ᙮ ᐁᔥᒄ ᐁ ᐱᒥᐸᐦᑖᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ ᒌ ᐅᑎᐦᑌᐤ ᒥᔅᑐᔀ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑌᑆᑖᑦ ᐁ ᐃᑖᑦ,

ᓂᒌ ᓇᑲᒋᐸᐦᐋᐗᒡ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔥ, ᒋᔐᐃᔨᓂᐤ, ᐸᐗᐦᐃᒉᓯᐗᒡ, ᓀᔥᑦ ᓅᑕᔥᑯᔑᐌᓯᐗᒡ᙮ ᒉᔥᑕᒌᔾ ᒋᑲ ᒌ ᓇᑲᒋᐸᐦᐃᑎᓐ!

ᐋᑕ ᒫᒃ ᑏᐌᐦᒡ ᑳ ᒋᐦᒋᐸᐦᑖᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒥᔅᑐᔅ, ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒌ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐊᑎᒥᓀᐦᐌᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐅᑎᐦᑖᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ ᑰᐦᑰᔕ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑌᑆᑖᑦ ᐁ ᐃᑖᑦ,

ᓂᒌ ᓇᑲᒋᐸᐦᐋᐗᒡ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔥ, ᒋᔐᐃᔨᓂᐤ, ᐸᐗᐦᐃᒉᓯᐗᒡ, ᓅᑕᔥᑯᔑᐌᓯᐗᒡ, ᓀᔥᑦ ᒥᔅᑐᔅ᙮ ᒉᔥᑕᒌᔾ ᒋᑲ ᒌ ᓇᑲᒋᐸᐦᐃᑎᓐ!

ᐋᑕ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒋᔒᐸᐦᑖᑦ ᑰᐦᑰᔥ, ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒌ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐊᑎᒥᓀᐦᐌᐤ᙮ ᐁᔥᒄ ᐁ ᐱᒥᐸᐦᑖᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ ᒌ ᐅᑎᐦᑌᐤ ᒪᐦᒉᔑᐤᐦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑌᑆᑖᑦ ᐁ ᐃᑖᑦ,

ᓂᒌ ᓇᑲᒋᐸᐦᐋᐗᒡ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔥ, ᒋᔐᐃᔨᓂᐤ, ᐸᐗᐦᐃᒉᓯᐗᒡ, ᓅᑕᔥᑯᔑᐌᓯᐗᒡ, ᒥᔅᑐᔅ, ᓀᔥᑦ ᑰᐦᑰᔥ᙮ ᒉᔥᑕᒌᔾ ᒋᑲ ᒌ ᓇᑲᒋᐸᐦᐃᑎᓐ!

ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᒋᐦᒋᐸᐦᑖᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒪᐦᒉᔑᐤ᙮ ᒋᔅᒉᔨᐦᑖᑯᓯᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᒋᔒᐸᐦᑖᑦ ᒪᐦᒉᔑᐤ᙮ ᒉᒃ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐅᑎᐦᑌᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒪᐦᒉᔑᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐤ ᓈᐯᔑᔕ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐊᑎ ᒧᐙᑦ᙮

ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᑗᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐤ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ, ᐌᓵ! ᐋᐱᐦᑕᐎᑳᑦ ᓂᑦᐃᔅᑯᒥᑲᐎᓐ! ᐁᒄ ᒦᓐ ᑳ ᐃᑗᑦ, ᐌᓵ! ᐋᐱᐦᑕᐎᔭᐤ ᓂᑦᐃᔅᑯᒥᑲᐎᓐ! ᐁᒄ ᐐᐸᒡ ᒦᓐ ᑳ ᐃᑗᑦ, ᐁᒄ ᐌᓵ! ᐊᓂᑕᐦ ᓂᑾᔮᐦᒡ ᓂᑦᐃᔅᑯᒥᑲᐎᓐ! ᒉᒃ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ, ᐁᒄ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᒋᑕᒧᑲᐎᔮᓐ!

ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒫᒃ ᒦᓐ ᐐᔅᑳᑦ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐯᐦᑖᑯᓯᐤ᙮

ᒫᐦᒄ ᐅᒥᔻᒋᒧᐎᓐ

ᐱᔅᒋᐦᑕᓯᓇᐦᐃᑲᓐ 1

1 ᐁᑯᑕ ᒉᐦᑖᐱᐦᒉᐸᔨᓂᔨᒡ ᐁ ᒥᔻᒋᒥᑯᓰᑦ ᒥᓈᑲᓐ᙮
2 ᑳ ᐃᑕᓯᓇᐦᐃᑳᑌᔨᒡ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐅᒪᓯᓇᐦᐃᒉᐎᓂᐦᒡ ᐅᒋᔅᒋᐌᐦᐃᒉᐤ ᔕᔮᐦᐆ,
« ᓂᑲ ᓃᑳᓂᑎᔕᐦᐙᐤ ᐊᐌᓐ ᒉ ᐯᑖᒋᒧᑦ ᒉᒌ ᒣᔅᑲᓈᐦᑳᔅᒄ᙮
3 « ᐯᐦᑖᑯᓯᐤ ᐊᐌᓐ ᐁ ᐸᐹ ᑌᐺᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐁ ᐱᑯᑕᔅᑲᒥᑳᔨᒡ ᐁ ᐃᑗᑦ,
« ᐊᔦᔅᑲᐎᐦᑖᐙᐦᒄ ᐅᑎᐯᔨᐦᒋᑫᐤ ᐅᒣᔅᑲᓇᐤ,
« ᓀᔥᑦ ᑾᔭᔅᑯᔑᒧᐦᑖᐙᐦᒄ᙮
4 ᐁᒄ ᑲᔭᐹ ᑳ ᐃᐦᑖᑦ ᐦᐋᓇᓐ, ᐁ ᓰᐦᑲᐦᐋᐦᑖᒉᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐁ ᐱᑯᑕᔅᑲᒥᑳᔨᒡ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐁ ᑲᒉᔅᑴᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᑴᔅᑳᑎᓰᐎ ᓰᐦᑲᐦᐋᐦᑖᒉᐎᓂᔨᐤ ᒉ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐌᐯᔨᐦᒋᑳᑌᔨᒀᐤ ᐗᓂᑑᑕᒧᐎᓐᐦ᙮
5 ᒌ ᐯᒋ ᓈᑎᑯᐤ ᐊᐌᔨᐤᐦ ᐁ ᐅᐦᑐᐦᑌᔨᒡᐦ ᒥᓯᐌ ᐦᐆᑖᐦᒡ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᐦᑕᔅᑲᒥᑳᔨᒡ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓖᒨᑌᓈᒥᐦᒡ ᐅᐦᒋ᙮ ᑳ ᒌᔑ ᐙᐐᐦᑕᒥᔨᒡᐦ ᒫᒃ ᐅᐗᓂᑑᑕᒧᐎᓂᔨᐤᐦ, ᒌ ᓰᐦᑲᐦᐋᐦᑕᐌᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐦᑌᓐ ᐲᐦᒡ᙮
ᐦᐋᓇᓐ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᒋᒋᔥᑲᒻ ᐊᔮᓐᐦ ᐅᐱᔅᒀᐎᑲᓀᐤᐦ ᐅᐲᐙᔨᐤᐦ ᑳ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐅᔑᐦᑖᑲᓂᐎᔨᒀᐤᐦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐲᔖᑲᓀᔮᐲᔨᐤ ᒌ ᐅᐸᐦᑯᑌᐦᐅᓂᐤ᙮ ᒀᔥᒀᔥᑯᐦᒋᔒᔕ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐋᒨ ᔔᑳᔨᐤ ᒌ ᐅᒦᒋᒥᐤ᙮
7 ᐁᑯᑌ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐃᔑ ᑲᒉᔅᑴᑦ,
« ᑲᑕ ᑕᑯᔑᓄ ᐊᐌᓐ ᐁᑕᑕᐤ ᐁ ᓲᐦᑳᑎᓰᑦ ᐃᔅᐱᔖᑦ ᓃᔭ, ᐅᒪᔅᒋᓯᓀᔮᐲᐦ ᒫᒃ ᓇᒪᐐᔭ ᒣᒋᒻ ᓂᑌᐯᔨᐦᑖᑯᓯᐙᓐ ᒉ ᓇᐌᐸᔨᐦᐅᐗᒃ ᒉᒌ ᐋᐱᐦᑯᓇᒧᒃ᙮
8 « ᓂᐲᐦᒡ ᓃᔭ ᒋᓰᐦᑲᐦᐋᐦᑖᑎᓈᐙᐤ, ᐐᔭ ᒫᒃ ᐊᐦᒑᐦᑾ ᑳ ᐸᔦᐦᒋᓯᔨᒡᐦ ᒋᑲ ᐅᐦᒋ ᓰᐦᑲᐦᐋᐦᑖᑯᐙᐤ᙮
9 ᐁᑯᑕ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐯᒋ ᐅᐦᑐᐦᑌᑦ ᔔ ᓯᓛᑎᐦᒡ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓖᓪ ᔅᒌᐦᒡ᙮ ᒌ ᓰᐦᑲᐦᐋᐦᑖᑯᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᐦᐃ ᐦᐋᓇᓐᐦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐦᑌᓐ ᐲᐦᒡ᙮
10 ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᑲᐹᑦ ᔔ ᒌ ᐙᐸᐦᑕᒻ ᒌᔑᑯᔨᐤ ᐁ ᑖᑐᐸᔨᓂᔨᒡ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐊᐦᒑᐦᑾ ᒬᐦᒡ ᐅᒦᒦᐦᒡ ᐁ ᐃᔑ ᔮᔒᑐᑖᑯᑦ᙮
11 ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐯᐦᑖᑯᓯᑦ ᐊᐌᓐ ᐊᓂᑌ ᑭᐦᒋᑮᔑᑯᐦᒡ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐁ ᐃᑗᑦ,
« ᒌᔭ ᑳ ᓵᒋᐦᐃᑖᓐ ᓂᑯᓯᔅ, ᑌᑲᔥ ᒋᓇᐦᐃᔭᐌᐦᐃᓐ᙮
12 ᑏᐌᐦᒡ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᐦᐃ ᐊᐦᒑᐦᑾ ᒌ ᐃᔑᑎᔕᐦᐅᑯᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐁ ᐱᑯᑕᔅᑲᒥᑳᔨᒡ᙮
13 ᓀᒥᑕᓇᐤ ᒌ ᑕᐦᑐᒌᔑᑴᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐁ ᐱᑯᑕᔅᑲᒥᑳᔨᒡ ᐁ ᑯᑴᒌᐦᐃᑯᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐃ ᑳ ᑯᑴᒋᐦᐃᐌᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᒌ ᑲᓇᐌᔨᒥᑯᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐁᓐᒋᓪᐦ ᒣᒀᒡ ᑳ ᐃᐦᑖᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐁ ᐃᐦᑖᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᐌᓰᓴ᙮
14 ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᑳ ᒋᐸᐦᐙᑲᓂᐎᔨᒡᐦ ᐦᐋᓇᓐᐦ, ᒌ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᐤ ᔔ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓖᓕᐦᒡ ᐁ ᒥᔻᒋᒫᑦ ᒪᓂᑑᐦ,
15 ᐁ ᐃᑗᑦ,
« ᐋᔥ ᑎᐱᐸᔨᓐ᙮ ᐯᔓᓈᑾᓂᔨᐤ ᒪᓂᑑ ᐅᒋᒫᐎᐎᓐ᙮ ᑴᔅᑳᑎᓰᒄ ᓀᔥᑦ ᑖᐺᐦᑕᒧᒄ ᐆ ᒥᔻᒋᒧᐎᓐ᙮
16 ᐁ ᐱᒫᔕᑳᒣᑦ ᒫᒃ ᓖᓪ ᑲᐦᐃᑲᓂᐦᒡ, ᒌ ᐙᐸᒣᐤ ᒨᓐᐦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐐᒋᔖᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᓐᑕᓓᐦ ᐁ ᐸᒋᑕᐦᐙᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓵᑲᐦᐃᑲᓂᐦᒡ᙮ ᐁᑯᑌ ᑳ ᐃᔑ ᐸᑳᔅᒋᐦᐅᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᐦᐃ ᑳ ᐐᒋᔖᓂᑐᔨᒡᐦ᙮
17 ᔔ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐃᑌᐤ,
« ᐯᒋ ᓅᓱᓀᐦᐅᒄ᙮ ᒋᑲ ᐃᔑᐦᐃᑎᓈᐙᐤ ᐊᔨᔑᔨᓂᐗᒡ ᒉᒌ ᐱᑕᐦᐅᔦᑯᒡ᙮
18 ᑏᐌᐦᒡ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᓇᑲᑌᐗᒡ ᐅᑦᐊᐦᔭᐲᐙᐤᐦ ᐁ ᐊᑎ ᓅᓱᓀᐦᐙᑣᐤ᙮
19 ᐊᐗᓯᑌᔒᔥ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᑦ, ᒌ ᐙᐸᒣᐤ ᑳ ᐐᒋᔖᓂᑐᔨᒡᐦ ᐦᐋᓇᓐᐦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐦᑯᑉᐦ (ᐸᑏ ᐅᑯᓯᓴ), ᒌᒫᓂᐦᒡ ᐁ ᐃᐦᑖᔨᒡᐦ ᐁ ᐗᐌᑕᐦᔭᐯᔨᒡᐦ᙮
20 ᑏᐌᐦᒡ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᓇᑐᒣᐤ᙮ ᐁᑯᑕ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᑕ ᒌᒫᓂᐦᒡ ᑳ ᐅᐦᒋ ᓇᑲᑖᑣᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐅᐦᑖᐐᐙᐤᐦ ᐸᑏᐦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐋᐸᒋᐦᐋᑲᓐᐦ ᐁ ᐊᑎ ᓅᓱᓀᐦᐙᑣᐤ᙮
21 ᐁᒄ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᑣᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐦᐆᒨᑌᓈᒥᐦᒡ᙮ ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐊᔭᒥᐦᐁᒌᔑᑳᔨᒡ ᒌ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᐤ ᔔ ᐊᔭᒥᐦᐁᐎᑲᒥᑯᐦᒡ ᐁ ᐐ ᒋᔅᒋᓄᐦᐊᒫᒉᑦ᙮
22 ᒌ ᒫᒪᔅᑳᑕᒬᐗᒡ ᒫᒃ ᐃᔨᓂᐗᒡ ᐅᒋᔅᒋᓄᐦᐊᒫᒉᐎᓂᔨᐤ ᐌᓴ ᒌ ᐃᔑ ᒋᔅᒋᓄᐦᐊᒪᐌᐤ ᒬᐦᒡ ᐊᐌᓐ ᐁ ᐅᒋᒫᐌᔨᐦᑖᑯᓯᑦ, ᓇᒪᐐᔭ ᒬᐦᒡ ᐊᓂᒌ ᑳ ᒋᔅᒋᓄᐦᐊᒫᒉᑣᐤ ᐗᔭᔕᐌᐎᓂᔨᐤ᙮
23 ᓴᔅᒋᑯᒡ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᑌᐺᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐊᔭᒥᐦᐁᐎᑲᒥᑯᐦᒡ ᐃᔨᓂᐤ ᑳ ᐲᐦᒋᔥᑳᑯᑦ ᐊᐦᒑᐦᑾ ᐁᑳ ᑳ ᐸᔦᐦᒋᓯᔨᒡᐦ,
24 ᐁ ᐃᑗᑦ,
« ᑖᓐ ᐙ ᐃᐦᑑᑕᐎᔮᐦᒡ ᔔ ᓯᓛᑎᐦᒡ ᑳ ᐅᐦᒌᔭᓐ᙮ ᒋᒌ ᑕᑯᔑᓐ ᐋ ᒉᒌ ᓂᔑᐗᓈᒋᐦᐃᔮᐦᒡ? ᒋᒋᔅᒉᔨᒥᑎᓐ ᐊᐌᓐ ᐃᔮᐎᔭᓐ, ᒌᔭ ᐅᐸᔦᐦᒋᓰᒻᐦ ᒪᓂᑑ!
25 ᔔ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᒋᑐᑌᐤ ᐁ ᐃᑗᑦ,
« ᐁᑳ ᒋᑐ! ᐯᒋ ᐗᔭᐐ ᐎᔮᐦᒡ ᐅᐦᒋ!
26 ᐊᓐ ᒫᒃ ᐊᐦᒑᐦᒄ ᐁᑳ ᑳ ᐸᔦᐦᒋᓯᑦ ᒌ ᑯᔥᑯᔥᑯᐸᔨᐦᐁᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐃ ᐃᔨᓂᐤᐦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᒌ ᐊᔮᔑᐦᑴᐤ ᐁ ᐯᒋ ᐗᔭᐐᑦ᙮
27 ᑳ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᒫᒪᔅᑳᑕᐦᒀᐤ ᒫᒃ ᒥᓯᐌ ᒌ ᑯᑴᒋᒥᑐᐗᒡ,
« ᒉᒀᓐ ᐆ? ᐅᔥᒋ ᒋᔅᒋᓄᐦᐊᒫᒉᐎᓐ ᐋ? ᒬᐦᒡ ᐅᒋᒫᐦᒡ ᐁ ᐃᑕᔕᐌᑦ ᐙᐙᒡ ᐁ ᐱᔑᒋᐦᐃᑯᑦ ᐁᑳ ᑳ ᐸᔦᐦᒋᓯᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᐦᒑᐦᑾ!
28 ᐁᑯᑕ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐊᑎ ᒥᓯᐦᑌᐸᔨᓂᔨᒡ ᐁ ᑎᐹᒋᒥᑯᓰᑦ ᔔ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᐦᑕᔅᑲᒥᑳᔨᒡ ᓖᓕᐦᒡ᙮
29 ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐗᔭᐐᑣᐤ ᐊᔭᒥᐦᐁᐎᑲᒥᑯᐦᒡ, ᒌ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᐌᐗᒡ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐐᒋᔩᐦᒡ ᒨᓐᐦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᓐᑕᓓᐦ ᐁ ᐐᒉᐎᑯᑣᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐦᑯᑉᐦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐦᐋᓇᓐᐦ᙮
30 ᒨᓐ ᒫᒃ ᐅᓯᑯᓴ ᒌ ᐱᒥᔑᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐁ ᒋᔑᑌᐙᔅᐱᓀᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᒌ ᐐᐦᑕᒪᐙᑲᓂᐎᐤ ᒫᒃ ᔔ ᑳ ᐯᒋ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᐙᑦ᙮
31 ᑳ ᐅᑎᐦᑖᑦ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐅᑎᓂᔅᒉᓀᐤ ᐁ ᐅᐦᐱᓈᑦ᙮ ᑏᐌᐦᒡ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᓇᑲᑎᑯᐤ ᐅᒋᔑᑌᐙᔅᐱᓀᐎᓐ, ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐊᑎ ᐋᐸᑎᓯᐙᑦ᙮
32 ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐅᑖᑯᔑᔨᒡ, ᑳ ᐃᔥᒀ ᐸᐦᒋᔑᒧᔨᒡᐦ ᐲᓯᒶ, ᒌ ᐯᑕᒪᐙᑲᓂᐎᐤ ᔔ ᒥᓯᐌ ᑳ ᐋᐦᑯᓯᔨᒡᐦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐃ ᑳ ᐲᐦᒋᔥᑳᑯᔨᒡᐦ ᒪᒋ ᐊᐦᒑᐦᑾ᙮
33 ᒥᓯᐌ ᑳ ᐃᑕᔑᑣᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐅᑌᓈᐦᒡ ᒌ ᐯᒋ ᒫᐗᒋᐦᐃᑐᐗᒡ ᐊᓂᑕ ᐃᔥᒀᐦᑌᒥᐦᒡ᙮
34 ᒌ ᒦᓇᐙᒋᐦᐁᐤ ᒫᒃ ᒥᐦᒉᑦ ᐊᐌᔨᐤᐦ ᓇᓈᐦᑲᐤ ᑳ ᐃᑖᔅᐱᓀᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᒌ ᐗᔭᐐᑎᔕᐦᐌᐤ ᓀᔥᑦ ᒥᐦᒉᑦ ᒪᒋ ᐊᐦᒑᐦᑾ, ᒥᒄ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐅᐦᒋᐦᐁᐤ ᐁ ᐊᔭᒥᔨᒡᐦ ᐁ ᒌ ᒋᔅᒉᔨᒥᑯᑦ ᐊᐌᓐ ᐃᔮᐎᑦ ᐐᔭ᙮
35 ᐐᐸᒡ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒉᒋᔐᐹᔮᔨᒡ, ᑆᒧᔥ ᑳ ᐙᐸᓂᔨᒡ, ᒌ ᐗᓂᔥᑳᐤ ᔔ᙮ ᒌ ᐗᔭᐐᐤ ᒫᒃ ᒉ ᓇᑕᐎ ᐊᔭᒥᐦᐋᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐁᑳ ᐃᐦᑖᓂᐎᔨᒡ᙮
36 ᐁᒄ ᒫᒃ ᒨᓐ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐃ ᑳ ᐐᒉᐎᑯᑦ ᒌ ᓈᓇᑕᐙᐸᒣᐗᒡ᙮
37 ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒥᔅᑲᐙᑣᐤ ᒌ ᐃᑌᐗᒡ,
« ᒥᓯᐌ ᐊᐌᓐ ᒋᓈᓇᑕᐙᐸᒥᒄ!
38 ᔔ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᓇᔥᑴᐗᔑᐦᐁᐤ ᐁ ᐃᑗᑦ,
« ᐋᐦᒌᐤᐦ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᑖᐤ᙮ ᑯᑕᒃᐦ ᐅᑌᓇᐤᐦ ᑳ ᐯᔓᓈᑯᐦᒀᐤᐦ ᓈᑌᑖᐤ ᒉᒌ ᑲᒉᔅᑴᔮᓐ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓀᔥᑦ᙮ ᐁᐗᒄ ᐌᓴᓐ ᐌᐦᒌ ᑕᑯᔑᓂᔮᓐ᙮
39 ᒌ ᐸᐹᒧᐦᑌᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᐃᑕᔅᑲᒥᑳᔨᒡ ᓖᓕᐦᒡ ᐁ ᑲᒉᔅᑴᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐅᑦᐊᔭᒥᐦᐁᐎᑲᒥᑯᔩᐦᒡ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐁ ᐗᔭᐐᑎᔕᐦᐙᑦ ᒪᒋ ᐊᐦᒑᐦᑾ᙮
40 ᒌ ᐯᒋ ᓈᑎᑯᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐃᔨᓂᐤᐦ ᑳ ᐅᔕᑳᐙᔅᐱᓀᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᑳ ᐅᒋᐦᒌᐦᑯᓇᐲᔥᑖᑯᑦ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᓇᑐᑕᒫᑯᐤ ᐁ ᐃᑎᑯᑦ,
« ᒌᔥᐱᓐ ᐐ ᑑᑕᒪᓀ, ᒋᑲ ᒌ ᐸᔦᐦᒋᐦᐃᓐ᙮
41 ᑳ ᒋᑎᒫᒉᔨᒫᑦ ᒫᒃ ᔔ ᒌ ᔓᐎᓂᔅᒉᔩᔥᑕᐌᐤ ᐁ ᓵᒥᓈᑦ ᐁ ᐃᑗᑦ,
« ᓂᐐ ᑑᑌᓐ᙮ ᒋᑲ ᐐ ᐸᔦᐦᒋᐦᐃᑲᐎᓐ!
42 ᑏᐌᐦᒡ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᓇᑲᑎᑯᐤ ᐅᔕᑳᐙᔅᐱᓀᐎᓂᔨᐤ, ᒌ ᒦᓇᐙᑎᓰᐤ ᒫᒃ᙮
43 ᑏᐌᐦᒡ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᒋᐦᒋᑎᔕᐦᐌᐤ ᓲᐦᒃ ᐁ ᐊᔮᒀᒥᒫᑦ,
44 ᐁ ᐃᑗᑦ,
« ᐋᔨᑌ ᐁᑳ ᒉ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐐᐦᑕᒪᐗᑦ ᐊᐌᓐ, ᒥᒄ ᒫᒃ ᓇᑕᐎ ᐙᐸᐦᑎᔨᓱᔥᑕᐤ ᐅᒪᒍᔥᑌᐦᐊᒫᒉᐤ ᐁᒄ ᒉ ᐸᒋᑎᓇᒪᓐ ᐊᓂᐦᐃ ᑳ ᐃᑕᔕᐌᑯᐸᓀ ᐊᓂᔮ ᔐ ᒉᒌ ᓅᑾᐦᒡ ᑖᐺ ᐁ ᒌ ᐸᔦᐦᒋᐦᐃᑲᐎᔭᓐ᙮
45 ᑕᔭᑯᒡ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒋᐦᑐᐦᑌᑦ ᓭᐦᒉᔾ ᒌ ᐊᑎ ᐙᐐᐦᑕᒻ ᐅᑎᐹᒋᒧᐎᓐ ᐲᐦᔨᒻ ᐁᑳ ᐙᓂᔅᒉ ᐁ ᒌ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᑦ ᔔ ᐅᑌᓈᐦᒡ᙮ ᐋᑕ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐃᐦᑖᑦ ᒫᓐᐦ ᐗᔭᐐᑎᒣ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐁ ᐱᑯᑕᔅᑲᒥᑳᔨᒡ, ᔮᐱᒡ ᒌ ᐯᒋ ᓈᑎᑯᐤ ᐊᐌᔨᐤᐦ ᒥᓯᐌ ᐗᔦᔥ ᐁ ᐅᐦᑐᐦᑌᔨᒡᐦ᙮

ᑳ ᐐᒋᔖᓂᑐᑣ


ᐌᔥᑲᒡ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒌᑳᔅᒄ ᐁ ᒋᑎᒫᒋᓰᑦ ᓅᑖᐦᑎᑴᓯᐤ ᒌ ᐐᒋᒣᐤ ᐐᒋᔅᑴᐤᐦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐅᑦᐊᐙᔑᔒᒻᐦ ᐁ ᓃᔑᔨᑣᐤᐦ᙮ ᐯᔭᒀᐤ ᐁ ᑕᒀᒋᐦᒡ ᒌ ᓅᐦᑌᐦᑲᑖᓂᐎᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐊᔅᒌᐦᒡ᙮ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒫᒃ ᓈᐯᐤ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒌ ᐊᔕᒣᐤ ᐅᑑᑌᒻᐦ᙮ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐐᒋᔅᑴᐤᐦ ᒌ ᐊᔮᒀᒥᒥᑯᐤ ᒉ ᑲᐗᐦᑲᑌᔨᑣᐤᐦ ᐅᑦᐊᐙᔑᔒᒥᐙᐤᐦ᙮ ᐯᔭᒀᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᑎᐱᔅᑳᔨᒡ ᒌ ᐃᑎᑯᐤ ᐐᒋᔅᑴᐤᐦ ᒉ ᐃᔑᐎᔮᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᐙᔑᔕ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓅᐦᒋᒦᐦᒡ ᒉᒋ ᓇᑲᑖᑲᓂᐎᔨᑣᐤᐦ᙮

ᐅᑯᓯᓯᒫᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᒌ ᒉᔥᑎᓇᐎᐦᑕᐦᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐁ ᐃᑣᓂᐎᔨᒡ ᑳ ᐐᐦᑕᒪᐙᑦ ᐅᒥᓴ᙮ ᐋᑕ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᑯᔥᑖᒋᑣᐤ ᑖᐱᔥᑰᒡ ᑳ ᐐᒋᔖᓂᑐᑣᐤ, ᔮᐱᒡ ᒌ ᐊᔦᔅᑲᐐᐗᒡ᙮ ᑳ ᐋᐱᐦᑖ ᑎᐱᔅᑳᔨᒡ ᐁ ᐃᔥᐸᑯᒋᓂᔨᒡᐦ ᑎᐱᔅᒋ ᐲᓯᒶ, ᒋᔮᒻ ᒌ ᓂᐦᒋᓈᑰᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ ᒉᒋ ᐗᔭᐐᑦ ᐁ ᐐ ᓇᑕᐎ ᒫᒨᔥᒋᓈᑦ ᐊᓯᓃᐦ ᑳ ᐙᐹᐱᔅᒋᓯᔨᑣᐤᐦ᙮ ᒌ ᓵᑲᔥᒋᓇᑖᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐅᑆᑭᑎᒻ᙮

ᑳ ᒉᒋᔐᐹᔮᔨᒡ, ᐊᓂᒌ ᐊᐙᔑᔕᒡ ᒌ ᒋᐦᒋᐎᔨᑯᐗᒡ ᐅᐦᑖᐐᐙᐤᐦ ᐁ ᐐ ᓈᒋᐦᑕᑴᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᒣᒀᒡ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᐱᒧᐦᑌᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ, ᒌᒨᒡ ᒌ ᐹᐦᐸᒋᑎᓀᐤ ᐊᓯᓃᐦ ᒉᒌ ᒋᔅᒋᓇᐙᒋᐦᑖᑦ ᐅᒣᔅᑲᓇᐤ᙮

ᐙᐦᔭᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐁ ᒥᔥᑎᑯᔅᑳᔨᒡ, ᒌ ᑯᑕᐗᑌᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᐅᐦᑖᐐᒫᐤ ᐅᑦᐊᐙᔑᔒᒻᐦ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑲᐎᔑᒧᓇᐦᐋᑦ᙮ ᒣᒀᒡ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᓂᐹᔨᑣᐤᐦ, ᒌ ᓇᑲᑌᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᐙᔑᔕ᙮ ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐤᐦ ᒥᒄ ᒌ ᓇᑲᑕᒪᐌᐤ ᒉᒌ ᒦᒋᓱᔨᑣᐤᐦ᙮ ᐋᔥ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒌ ᐊᔦᔅᑲᐐᑣᐤ ᐊᓂᒌ ᐊᐙᔑᔕᒡ, ᐌᔭᐱᔥᒌᔥ ᒥᒄ ᒌ ᓂᐹᔑᐗᒡ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᒌᔑᑳᔥᑌᔨᒡ, ᒌ ᓅᓱᓀᐦᐌᐗᒡ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᓯᓃᐦ ᑳ ᐙᓯᐦᒀᐱᔅᒋᓯᔨᑣᐤᐦ ᒉᒌ ᒥᑎᒣᑣᐤ᙮ ᒉᒃ ᑳ ᑕᑯᔑᐦᒀᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐐᒋᐙᐦᒡ᙮ ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᑳ ᐙᐸᒫᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᐃᔅᑴᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᐙᔑᔕ ᐁ ᑕᑯᔑᓂᔨᑣᐤᐦ ᒌ ᒥᔯᔨᐦᑕᒨᐦᑳᓱᐤ, ᒥᒄ ᒫᒃ ᑖᐺ ᒌ ᒋᔑᐌᔨᒣᐤ ᑳᐤ ᐁ ᒌ ᑕᑯᔑᓂᔨᑣᐤᐦ᙮

ᒦᓐ ᑳ ᐙᐸᓂᔨᒡ ᒌ ᐃᑕᔕᐙᑌᐤ ᐅᓈᐯᒻᐦ ᒦᓐ ᒉ ᐃᑐᐦᑕᐦᐋᔨᒡᐦ ᐅᑦᐊᐙᔑᔒᒥᐙᐤᐦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓅᐦᒋᒦᐦᒡ᙮ ᐊᐗᓯᑌ ᐙᐦᔭᐤ ᒌ ᐃᑐᐦᑕᐦᐁᐤ ᐅᑦᐊᐙᔑᔒᒻᐦ ᐊᓐ ᓈᐯᐤ᙮ ᐁᑳ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐊᔮᐙᑦ ᐊᓯᓃᐦ ᐊᓐ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ, ᒌ ᐱᒋᔥᒋᐱᑌᐤ ᐅᑦᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᒻᐦ ᒉᒌ ᒋᔅᒋᓇᐙᒋᐦᑖᑦ ᐅᒣᔅᑲᓇᐤ᙮ ᒥᒄ ᒫᒃ ᐱᔦᔒᔕ ᒌ ᒧᐌᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐤᐦ ᑳ ᐹᐦᐸᒋᑎᓈᑦ᙮ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒫᒃ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒌ ᒥᔅᑲᒻ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᒣᔅᑲᓈᔨᐤ ᐊᓐ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ ᒉᒌ ᒌᐌᑣᐤ᙮

ᑳ ᐙᐸᓂᔨᒡ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓐ ᐃᔥᑴᔑᔥ ᒌ ᐱᓯᔅᑳᐸᒣᐤ ᐱᔦᔒᔥ ᐁ ᐙᐱᓯᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᒌ ᓄᓱᓀᐦᐌᐗᒡ ᐊᓂᒌ ᐊᐙᔑᔕᒡ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐱᔦᔒᔕ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᒥᔪᐦᑕᐙᑣᐤ᙮ ᐁ ᐸᐹᒧᐦᑌᑣᐤ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᒥᔅᑾᒧᒡ ᐙᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᔨᐤ ᐁ ᒫᒪᔅᑳᓯᓈᑾᓂᔨᒡ᙮ ᒬᐦᒡ ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐦᒡ ᒌ ᐃᔑᓈᑾᓂᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐙᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᔨᐤ ᑳ ᒥᔅᑲᐦᒀᐤ᙮ ᐊᐸᐦᒀᓂᔨᐤ ᒫᒃ ᒬᐦᒡ ᓰᐎᑏᓯᐦᒡ ᒌ ᐃᔑᓈᑾᓂᔨᐤ᙮ ᐊᓂᒌ ᒫᒃ ᐊᐙᔑᔕᒡ ᒌ ᐸᐦᑴᐦᑕᒧᒡ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐙᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᔨᐤ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᔒᐗᑌᑣᐤ᙮ ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᓴᔅᑲᒧᑣᐤ, ᒌ ᐯᐦᑕᐌᐗᒡ ᐊᐌᔨᐤᐦ ᐁ ᐃᑎᑯᑣᐤ,

ᐋᐱᐦᑯᔒᔑᐦᒡ ᐃᑎᐦᑖᑯᓯᐤ!

ᐊᐌᓐ ᒫᒋᑦ ᓂᐙᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᒥᔨᐤ?

ᓴᔅᒋᑯᒡ ᑳ ᐋᐸᐦᐃᐸᔨᑦ ᐃᔥᒀᐦᑌᒻ, ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᓅᑯᓯᑦ ᐁ ᐗᔭᐐᑳᐸᐎᑦ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔑᔥ ᐁ ᒪᒋᓈᑯᓯᑦ᙮ ᒌ ᐹᐦᐱᐦᑴᔩᔥᑕᐌᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔑᔥ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᐙᔑᔕ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐲᐦᑐᑲᐦᐋᑦ᙮ ᑳ ᐙᐸᒫᑦ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᔑᐗᑌᔨᑣᐤᐦ, ᒌ ᐊᔕᒣᐤ ᐴᑎᓐᐦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᒦᓂᔕ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑲᐎᔑᒧᓇᐦᐋᑦ᙮

ᐊᓂᒌ ᑳ ᐐᒋᔖᓂᑐᑣᐤ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒋᔅᒉᔨᒣᐗᒡ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐃᔅᑴᐤᐦ ᑳ ᒥᔪ ᑑᑖᑯᑣᐤ ᒋᐦᒋᐌ ᑳ ᐋᐎᔨᒡᐦ ᐐᐦᑎᑰᔅᑴᐤᐦ! ᒣᒀᒡ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒥᔪᐦᒀᒥᑦ ᐊᓐ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ, ᒌ ᒋᐦᒋᐎᔨᑯᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐐᐦᑎᑰᔅᑴᐤᐦ ᒉᒌ ᓇᑕᐎ ᒋᐸᐦᐅᑯᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒋᐸᐦᐅᑑᐎᑲᒥᑯᐦᒡ᙮

ᐁᑯᑌ! ᒌ ᐃᑎᑎᓱᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒪᒋ ᐃᔅᑴᐤ, ᓂᑲ ᑖᐦᒋᐳᐦᐋᐤ ᒉᒌ ᒧᐗᒃ!

ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᐐᐦᑎᑰᔅᑴᐤ ᒌ ᐃᑕᔕᐙᑌᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐃᔥᑴᔑᔕ ᒉ ᐱᒥᓇᐌᔨᒡᐦ ᒉᒌ ᑖᐦᒋᐳᐦᐋᒪᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐐᒋᔖᓂᔨᐤᐦ᙮ ᐊᓂᒌ ᒫᒃ ᐊᐙᔑᔕᒡ ᒌ ᓇᑐᑕᒪᐌᐗᒡ ᒉ ᐐᐦᑯᒋᐦᐃᑯᑣᐤ, ᐱᔑᔑᒄ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐅᔑᓈᑯᐗᒡ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐐᐦᑎᑰᔅᑴᐤᐦ᙮

ᐁᑳ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᓇᐦᐋᐱᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔑᔥ ᒣᔕᑯᒻ ᒌᔑᑳᐤ ᒌ ᑲᑴᑎᓇᒬᐤ ᐅᑎᐦᒌᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᓈᐯᔑᔕ ᐁ ᓇᑕᐙᐦᐋᑦ ᑌᐱ ᑖᐦᒋᐳᔨᑴᓐᐦ᙮ ᐯᔭᑾᐤ, ᒌ ᒥᔅᑲᒻ ᐅᔥᑲᓂᔥᒌᔑᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒋᐸᐦᐅᑑᐎᑲᒥᑯᐦᒡ᙮ ᑳ ᐯᒋ ᓇᑕᐙᐦᐃᑯᑦ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐐᐦᑎᑰᔅᑴᐤᐦ, ᐁᐗᑾᓂᔨᐤ ᑳ ᓃᒥᓇᒪᐙᑦ᙮ ᑳ ᑲᑴᑎᓇᒸᑦ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐅᔅᑲᓂᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔑᔥ, ᒌ ᐃᑌᔨᒣᐤ ᐁᔥᒄ ᐁ ᐅᓵᒥ ᐸᔅᒉᐌᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᓈᐯᔑᔕ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᑎᑎᓱᑦ, ᐋᑕ ᑳ ᐊᔕᒫᑲᓂᐎᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᓈᐯᔑᔥ, ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᐐ ᑖᐦᒋᐳᐤ! ᑖᐺ ᒌ ᐴᒣᐦᐁᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᐐᐦᑎᑰᔅᑴᐤ᙮

ᑳ ᒉᒋᔐᐹᔮᔨᒡ ᒌ ᐃᑕᔕᐙᑌᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐃᔥᑴᔑᔕ ᒉ ᐲᐦᑎᑌᔮᐦᑕᐐᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒋᔖᐱᔅᒋᓵᐙᓂᐦᒡ ᒉᒌ ᓇᑕᐙᐦᑖᔨᒡᐦ ᑌᐱᐦᑯᔦᔨᑴ ᐃᔥᑯᑌᔨᐤ᙮ ᐃᔥᑴᔑᔥ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᑲᑴᒋᒣᐤ, ᑖᓐ ᐹᐦᑎᑌᔮᐦᑕᐐᔮᓐ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒋᔖᐱᔅᒋᓵᐙᓂᐦᒡ?

ᑳ ᒋᔑᐙᐦᐃᑯᑦ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᐐᐦᑎᑰᔅᑴᐤ, ᒌ ᐃᔅᒀᐦᑕᐐᐤ ᒉᒌ ᐙᐸᐦᑎᔮᑦ ᑖᓂᑌ ᒉ ᐃᔑ ᓇᑕᐙᐦᑖᔨᒡᐦ ᐃᔥᑯᑌᔨᐤ᙮ ᓴᔅᒋᑯᒡ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᐃᔥᑴᔑᔥ ᒌ ᑯᐦᑯᐌᐱᓀᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᒋ ᐃᔅᑴᐤᐦ ᒉᒌ ᐴᐦᒋᐸᔨᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒋᔖᐱᔅᒋᓵᐙᓂᐦᒡ᙮

ᐊᓂᒌ ᒫᒃ ᐊᐙᔑᔕᒡ ᒌ ᓵᑲᔥᒋᓇᑖᐗᒡ ᐅᑆᑭᑎᒥᐙᐤᐦ ᑳ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒫᒨᔥᒋᓇᒸᑣᐤ ᐅᒦᔕᒋᓰᐎᓂᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐐᐦᑎᑰᔅᑴᐤᐦ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᒌᐌᑣᐤ᙮ ᐯᔓᒡ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᒪᑖᐯᐗᒡ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐁ ᐊᔭᑲᔥᑳᑲᒫᔨᒡ᙮ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒫᒃ ᓈᓯᐯᑎᒥᐦᒡ ᒌ ᐃᐦᑖᔨᐤᐦ ᐙᐱᓯᐤᐦ ᑳ ᒥᔑᒋᑎᔨᒡᐦ ᑳ ᓇᔅᑯᒧᔨᒡᐦ ᒉ ᐋᔕᐗᐦᐅᔨᑯᑣᐤ᙮ ᒉᒃ ᒌ ᒫᑖᒣᐗᒡ ᑳ ᓃᔑᑣᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒣᔅᑲᓈᔨᐤ ᑳ ᒋᔅᒉᔨᐦᑕᐦᒀᐤ᙮

ᒌ ᐅᐦᒋᑲᐙᐱᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᓅᑖᐦᑎᑴᓯᐤ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᒥᔯᔨᐦᑕᐦᒃ ᑳᐤ ᐁ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐙᐸᒫᑦ ᐅᑦᐊᐙᔑᔒᒻᐦ᙮ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒫᒃ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐃᐦᑖᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐐᒋᔅᑴᐤᐦ ᐁ ᒌ ᐌᐱᓈᑦ ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᑳ ᒋᔅᒉᔨᒫᑦ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᒪᒋᐦᑣᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᑳ ᓂᔥᑎᑣᐤ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᒥᔯᔨᐦᑕᒧᒡ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᐱᒫᑎᓰᑣᐤ ᐁ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐱᒫᒋᐦᐅᐙᒉᐙᑣᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐅᒦᔕᒋᓰᐎᓂᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐐᐦᑎᑰᔅᑴᐤᐦ᙮


ᐌᔥᑲᒡ ᒌ ᐃᐦᑖᐤ ᐃᔥᑴᔑᔥ ᑳ ᓵᒋᐦᐃᑯᑦ ᒥᓯᐌ ᐊᐌᔨᐤᐦ ᑳ ᑲᓇᐙᐸᒥᑯᑦ᙮ ᐅᐦᑰᒻᐦ ᒫᒃ ᒫᐗᒡ ᒌ ᓵᒋᐦᐃᑯᐤ ᓀᔥᑦ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒌ ᐃᐦᑕᑾᓂᔨᐤ ᒉᒀᔨᐤ ᐁᑳ ᒉ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒦᔨᑯᑦ᙮ ᐯᔭᒀᐤ ᒌ ᒦᔨᑯᐤ ᑳ ᒥᐦᒀᔑᔨᒡ ᐊᔥᑐᑎᓂᔑᔨᐤ᙮ ᐁᐗᑾᓂᔨᐤ ᒨᔥ ᑳ ᒋᒋᔥᑲᐦᒃ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᒥᔪᔥᑲᐦᒃ᙮ ᐁᐗᒄ ᐌᐦᒋ ᒌ ᐃᔑᓂᐦᑳᑎᑯᓰᑦ ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᑦ᙮

ᐯᔭᒀᐤ ᒌ ᐃᑎᑯᐤ ᐅᑳᐐᐦ, ᐋᔥᑕᒻ ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᔭᓐ! ᒫᐤ ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐤ ᓀᔥᑦ ᔔᒥᓈᐴ᙮ ᐃᑐᐦᑕᑕᒪᐤ ᐆᔨᐤᐦ ᑰᐦᑯᒻ᙮ ᐋᐦᑯᓯᐤ ᓀᔥᑕ ᓃᔭᒥᓰᐤ ᑰᐦᑯᒻ᙮ ᑲᑕ ᒥᔪᔥᑳᑯᐤ ᐆᔨᐤ ᒦᒋᒥᔨᐤ᙮ ᒋᐦᑐᐦᑌᐦ ᐁᔥᒄ ᐁᑳ ᐁ ᒋᔖᔥᑌᒡ᙮ ᐌᐌᔭᑦ ᒫᒃ ᐱᒧᐦᑌᐦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐁᑳᐐᔾ ᐸᑐᑌᔅᑲᓇᐌᐦᑌᐦ ᐁᑳ ᒉ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐲᑯᐦᑎᑖᔭᓐ ᐆᐦᐁ ᐴᑕᔾ᙮ ᐲᑯᐦᑎᓂᔨᒉ ᒫᒃ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᑲᑕ ᐊᔮᐤ ᒉᒀᔨᐤ ᑰᐦᑯᒻ᙮ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᔭᓀ ᒫᒃ, ᐁᑳᐐᔾ ᐗᓂ ᒋᔅᒋᓯ ᒉ ᐴᔔᐦᑲᐗᑦ ᑰᐦᑯᒻ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐁᑳᐐᔾ ᐱᓯᔅᒉᔨᐦᑕᐦ ᒉᒀᓐ ᑆᒧᔥ ᐴᔔᐦᑲᐗᑌ᙮

ᓂᑲ ᔮᒀᒥᓰᓐ! ᒌ ᐃᑌᐤ ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᑦ ᐁ ᐊᔓᑕᒪᐙᑦ ᐅᑳᐐᐦ᙮ ᐅᐦᑯᒻᐦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓅᐦᒋᒦᐦᒡ ᒌ ᐐᒋᔨᐤᐦ, ᐗᔦᔥ ᓂᑯᑣᓱ ᑎᐸᐦᐃᑲᓐ ᐅᑌᓈᐦᒡ ᐅᐦᒋ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐊᑎ ᑯᑖᐙᔅᑯᐦᐊᐦᒃ ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᑦ ᒌ ᓇᒋᔥᑲᐌᐤ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ᙮ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒋᔅᒉᔨᒣᐤ ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᑦ ᑖᓐ ᐁᔅᐱᔑ ᒫᔮᑎᓰᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ᙮

ᒥᔪ ᒌᔑᑳᐤ, ᓇᒪ, ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᔭᓐ? ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ

ᑖᐺ ᒥᔪ ᒌᔑᑳᐤ, ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ᙮

ᑖᓂᑌ ᐁᑐᐦᑌᔭᓐ ᐐᐸᒡ ᒉᒋᔐᑉ, ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᔭᓐ?

ᓅᐦᑯᒻ ᐐᒋᐦᒡ᙮

ᒉᒀᓐ ᐁᔮᔭᓐ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒌᐗᑎᐦᒡ?

ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐤ ᓀᔥᑦ ᔔᒥᓈᐴ᙮ ᒌ ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐦᑳᓂᐎᐤ ᐅᑖᑯᔒᐦᒡ᙮ ᑳ ᒋᑎᒫᒋᓰᑦ ᓅᐦᑯᒻ ᑲᑕ ᐊᔮᐤ ᒉᒀᔨᐤ ᐁ ᒥᔻᔨᒡ ᐊᐗᓯᑌ ᒉ ᒥᔻᒋᐦᐃᑯᑦ᙮

ᑖᓂᑌ ᐙᒋᑦ ᑰᐦᑯᒻ, ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᔭᓐ?

ᐊᐗᓯᑌ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓅᐦᒋᒦᐦᒡ, ᐋᐱᐦᑕᐎ ᑎᐸᐦᐃᑲᓐ ᐗᔦᔥ᙮ ᔒᐹ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒥᔥᑎᑯᒥᓈᐦᑎᑯᐦᒡ ᐃᐦᑕᑾᓂᔨᐤ ᐐᒡ᙮ ᐯᔓᒡ ᐊᓂᑌ ᑳ ᐃᐦᑖᑣᐤ ᐊᓂᒌ ᐸᑳᓈᐦᑎᑯᒡ᙮ ᒉᒫᓂᒻ ᒋᒋᔅᒉᔨᐦᑕᒸᓐ ᑖᓂᑕ ᐁ ᐐᒋᑦ᙮ ᒌ ᓇᔥᑴᐗᔑᐦᐁᐤ ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᑦ᙮

ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ ᒌ ᐃᑎᑎᓱᐤ, ᐙ ᒪᔫᒉᐗᒋᓈᑯᓯᑦ ᐆ ᐃᔥᑴᔑᔥ! ᐊᐗᓯᑌ ᐐᐦᒋᑏᑐᒉ ᐃᔅᐱᔖᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔑᔕ᙮ ᒌᒨᒡ ᓂᐸ ᐊᔨᐦᑎᓐ ᑖᐱᔅᑰᒡ ᐐ ᒧᐗᒀᐌᓂᒡ᙮ ᐱᑕᒫ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐐᒉᐌᐤ ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᑖᑦ, ᒋᐙᐸᐦᑌᓐ ᐋ, ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᔭᓐ, ᑖᓐ ᐁᔅᐱᔑ ᒥᔻᔑᒀᐤᐦ ᐙᐱᑯᓃᐦ? ᒉᒀᓐ ᐌᐦᒋ ᐁᑳ ᐊᔨᑖᐱᔭᓐ? ᓂᑦᐃᑌᔨᐦᑌᓐ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐁᑳ ᐯᐦᑕᐗᑣᐤ ᐱᔦᔒᔕᒡ ᐁ ᓂᑲᒧᑣᐤ᙮ ᒋᒪᒉᔨᐦᑕᒨᓈᑯᓯᓐ ᐁ ᐱᒧᐦᑌᔭᓐ ᒬᐦᒡ ᐁ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᔭᓐ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒋᔅᒋᓄᐦᐊᒫᑑᐎᑲᒥᑯᐦᒡ᙮ ᒨᒋᑫᔨᐦᑕᒧᒡ ᒫᒃ ᑯᑕᑲᒡ ᐊᐌᓂᒌ ᐆᑌ ᓅᐦᒋᒦᐦᒡ ᐁ ᐃᐦᑖᑣᐤ᙮

ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑕᔅᑕᓵᐱᑦ ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᑦ᙮ ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐙᐸᐦᑕᐦᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐲᓯᒬᔮᐲᔨᐤ ᐁ ᓃᒦᒪᑲᓂᔨᒡ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐙᐱᑯᓃᐦ ᑳ ᓂᐦᑖᐎᒋᓂᔨᒀᐤᐦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒥᓯᐌᔅᑲᒥᒡ, ᒌ ᐃᑎᑎᓱᐤ, ᒫᒨᔥᒋᓇᒪᐗᑫ ᐙᐱᑯᓃᐦ ᓅᐦᑯᒻ, ᑖᐺ ᒋᐸ ᒥᔯᔨᐦᑕᒻ᙮ ᔮᐱᒡ ᓂᑲ ᒉᓯᔅᑲᐙᐤ ᓅᐦᑯᒻ ᐌᔅ ᐐᐸᒡ ᓂᒌ ᒋᐦᑐᐦᑌᓐ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐸᑐᑌᔅᑲᓇᐌᐸᐦᑖᑦ ᐁ ᓈᓇᑕᐙᐱᑯᓀᑦ᙮ ᑕᐦᑣᐤ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒪᓂᐱᑕᐦᒃ ᐙᐱᑯᓃᔨᐤ ᒦᓐ ᑯᑕᒋᔨᐤ ᒌ ᐙᐸᐦᑕᒻ ᐊᐗᓯᑌ ᐁ ᒧᔥᑌᓇᐦᒃ᙮ ᒉᒃ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᔮᐎᓈᑯᓯᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒣᔅᑲᓈᐦᒡ᙮

ᐁᒄ ᒫᒃ ᐐᔾ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ ᑳ ᐃᔅᐸᐦᑖᐙᑦ ᐐᒋᔩᐦᒡ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐅᐦᑯᒥᒫᐤᐦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐹᐦᐹᐗᐦᐃᒉᑦ᙮

ᐊᐌᓐ ᒌᔾ?

ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᑦ, ᒌ ᓇᔥᑴᐗᔑᐦᐁᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᓐ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ᙮ ᒋᐯᑕᒫᒄ ᔔᒥᓈᐴᔨᐤᐦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐤᐦ; ᐯᒋ ᐋᐸᐦᐅ ᐃᔥᒀᐦᑌᒻᐦ᙮

ᐅᐦᐹᐱᔅᒋᓐᐦ ᐋᑖᐱᔅᑲᐦᐃᑲᓐ! ᒌ ᑌᐺᐤ ᐁ ᒋᔗᐌᑦ ᐊᓐ ᐅᐦᑯᒥᒫᐤ, ᐌᓵ ᓂᓃᔭᒥᓰᓐ᙮ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒫᒃ ᓂᒌ ᐸᓯᑰᓐ᙮

ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᑳ ᐅᐦᐹᐱᔅᒋᓇᐦᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐋᑖᐱᔅᑲᐦᐃᑲᓂᔨᐤ ᐊᓐ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ, ᒌ ᐋᐸᐦᐃᐸᔨᔨᐤᐦ ᐃᔥᒀᐦᑌᒻᐦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᒌᔖᒡ ᑳ ᓈᑕᒸᑦ ᐅᓂᐯᐎᓂᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐅᐦᑯᒥᒫᐤᐦ ᒉ ᒧᐙᑦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐳᔥᑎᔥᑲᒸᑦ ᐅᓂᐯᐗᔮᓂᔨᐤ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐅᑦᐊᔥᑐᑎᓂᔨᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐗᐌᔨᔑᐦᒃ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓂᐯᐎᓂᐦᒡ ᓀᔥᑦ ᑳ ᐋᑲᐌᔦᒋᐱᒋᒉᑦ᙮

ᐐᔾ ᒫᒃ ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᑦ ᐁᔥᒄ ᒌ ᐸᐹᒥᐸᐦᑖᐤ ᐁ ᒫᒨᔥᒋᓇᐦᒃ ᐙᐱᑯᓃᐦ᙮ ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᒫᒃ ᐁᑳ ᑳ ᑌᐱᓇᐦᒃ ᐌᔅ ᒥᐦᒉᑦ ᐁ ᒌ ᒫᒨᔥᒋᓇᐦᒃ, ᒌ ᒋᔅᒋᓯᑐᑕᐌᐤ ᐅᐦᑯᒻᐦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᒫᒃ ᒦᓐ ᑳ ᒋᐦᑐᐦᑌᐙᑦ᙮

ᒌ ᑯᔥᑴᔨᐦᑕᒻ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᐙᐸᒫᑦ ᐃᔥᒀᐦᑌᒻᐦ ᐁ ᐋᐸᐦᐊᑯᒋᓂᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᑳ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᑦ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐃᑎᑎᓱᐤ ᐁ ᐊᒪᑎᓱᑦ, ᐁᒄ ᐌᓵ! ᒨᔥ ᓂᒥᔯᔨᐦᑕᒸᓐ ᐁ ᐙᐸᒪᒃ ᓅᐦᑯᒻ᙮ ᒉᒀᔨᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐌᐦᒋ ᐁᑳ ᔖᐯᔨᒪᒃ ᐊᓄᐦᒌᔥ? ᒌ ᑌᐺᐤ ᐁ ᒋᔗᐌᑦ, ᑴᔾ ᑴᔾ! ᒥᒄ ᒫᒃ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᐅᐦᒋ ᓇᔥᑴᐗᔑᐦᐋᑲᓂᐎᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓂᐯᐎᑲᒥᑯᐦᒡ ᓀᔥᑦ ᑳ ᐹᔅᒉᒋᐱᒋᒉᑦ᙮

ᐁᑯᑕ ᑳ ᐱᒫᔅᑯᔑᓂᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ ᐁ ᐊᑯᓈᐦᑴᔑᓂᔨᒡᐦ, ᓇᐗᒡ ᐁ ᒫᒪᔅᑳᓯᓈᑯᓯᔨᒡᐦ᙮

ᐌᓵ ᓅᐦᑯᒻ! ᒌ ᐃᑌᐤ, ᑖᐺ ᒋᒫᒪᐦᒋᐦᑕᐗᒉᓐ!

ᐊᐗᓯᑌ ᒉ ᓇᐦᐃᐦᑖᑖᓐ ᓅᓯᓯᒻ! ᒌ ᓇᔥᑴᐗᔑᐦᐃᑯᐤ᙮

ᒫᒃ ᓅᐦᑯᒻ, ᑖᐺ ᒋᒫᒪᐦᑲᒑᐱᓐ! ᒌ ᐃᑌᐤ᙮

ᐊᐗᓯᑌ ᒉ ᓇᐦᐋᐸᒥᑖᓐ ᓅᓯᓯᒻ!

ᒫᒃ ᓅᐦᑯᒻ, ᑖᐺ ᒋᒫᒪᐦᒋᑎᐦᒉᓐ!

ᐊᐗᓯᑌ ᒉ ᒥᔪ ᐌᐗᒋᑴᓂᑖᓐ!

ᐌᓵ! ᓅᐦᑯᒻ, ᑖᐺ ᒋᒫᒪᐦᑳᐱᑌᓐ!

ᐊᐗᓯᑌ ᒉ ᒥᔪ ᒨᑖᓐ!

ᓴᔅᒋᑯᒡ ᑳ ᐗᓂᔥᑳᐸᐦᑖᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ ᒉ ᒧᐙᑦ ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᔨᒡᐦ᙮

ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᒌᔥᐳᑦ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ, ᒌ ᑲᐎᔑᒧᐤ᙮ ᑳ ᑲᐎᐦᑯᔑᑦ ᒫᒃ, ᒌ ᐊᑎ ᒪᑗᐦᒀᒥᐤ᙮ ᒣᒀᒡ ᑳ ᓂᐹᔨᒡᐦ, ᒌ ᒥᔮᔥᑲᒻ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐙᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᔨᐤ ᐃᔨᓂᐤ ᑳ ᓇᑕᐗᐦᐅᑦ᙮ ᒌ ᐃᑎᑎᓱᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᓈᐯᐤ, ᐁᒄ ᐌᓵ ᒋᔗᐌ ᒪᑗᐦᒀᒥᐤ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒋᔐᐃᔥᑴᔑᔥ᙮ ᓂᐸ ᑲᑴᒋᒫᐤ ᓇᑕᐌᔨᐦᑕᒧᑴ ᒉᒀᔨᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᐙᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐅᐙᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᒥᔩᐦᒡ, ᑳ ᓈᑕᒸᑦ ᐅᓂᐯᐎᓂᔨᐤ, ᒉᒃ ᒌ ᐙᐸᒣᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ ᑳ ᐱᒥᔑᓂᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᐆᑌ ᐋ ᒋᒥᔅᑳᑎᓐ ᒌᔾ ᑳ ᒪᒋᐦᑣᔭᓐ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ, ᐋᔥ ᐌᔥᑲᒡ ᒋᓈᓇᑕᐙᐸᒥᑎᓐ! ᐁᒄ ᒬᐦᒡ ᑳ ᐐ ᐹᔅᒋᔂᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ, ᒌ ᐃᑌᔨᐦᑕᒻ ᒫᔥᑯᒡ ᐁᔥᒄ ᐁ ᐃᔨᓃᐎᑴᓐᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐅᐦᑯᒥᒫᐤᐦ᙮ ᑳ ᐐ ᐱᒫᒋᐦᐋᑦ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ, ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐹᔅᒋᓯᒉᐤ᙮ ᒌ ᑕᐦᑯᓇᒻ ᒫᒃ ᑕᑯᐦᑯᒫᓂᔨᐤ, ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑖᑐᔕᒸᑦ ᐗᑖᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ᙮ ᐊᐱᔒᔥ ᒥᒄ ᑳ ᒫᑎᔑᒉᑦ, ᒌ ᐙᐸᐦᑕᒻ ᑳ ᒥᐦᒀᔨᒡ ᐊᔥᑐᑎᓂᔨᐤ᙮ ᐊᐱᔒᔥ ᒦᓐ ᑳ ᒫᑎᔑᒉᑦ, ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐗᔭᐐ ᒀᔥᑯᐦᑎᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐃᔥᑴᔑᔕ ᐁ ᒫᑐᔨᒡᐦ ᐁ ᐃᑗᔨᒡᐦ, ᐌᓵ ᓂᒌ ᓭᒋᓯᓐ ᐁ ᐗᓂ ᑎᐱᔅᑳᔨᒡ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐲᐦᒋᔭᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᓈᒉᔒᔥ ᐊᓐ ᐅᐦᑯᒥᒫᐤ ᐌᔥᑕᐐᔾ ᑳ ᐯᒋ ᐗᔭᐐᑦ ᐁ ᓅᐦᑌᑖᒧᑦ᙮ ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᑦ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᓈᑌᐤ ᐊᓯᓃᐦ ᐁ ᑯᓯᒀᐱᔅᒋᓯᔨᑣᐤᐦ ᒉ ᐋᐸᒋᐦᐋᑦ ᒉᒌ ᓵᑲᔥᒋᓇᑖᐙᑦ ᐗᑖᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ᙮ ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐗᓂᔥᑳᑦ ᐊᓐ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ ᒌ ᓂᐸᐦᐃᔑᓄ ᐁ ᑯᑴ ᒋᐦᒋᐸᐦᑖᑦ᙮

ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᒥᔯᔨᐦᑕᐦᒀᐤ ᑳ ᓂᔥᑎᑣᐤ᙮ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᐃᔨᓂᐤ ᑳ ᓇᑕᐗᐦᐅᑦ ᒌ ᐸᐦᑯᓀᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ, ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᒌᐌᐦᑕᐦᐋᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓂᐗᔮᓐᐦ᙮ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒫᒃ ᐅᐦᑯᒥᒫᐤ ᑳ ᒥᔻᒋᐦᐃᑯᑦ ᐁ ᒧᐙᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐋᔭᐦᑯᓈᐤᐦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐁ ᒥᓂᐦᑴᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᔔᒥᓈᐴᔨᐤ ᑳ ᐯᑕᒫᑯᑦ ᒣᐦᑯᔥᑐᑎᓀᔑᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒫᒃ ᐃᔥᑴᔑᔥ ᑳ ᐃᑎᑎᓱᑦ, ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒦᓐ ᐐᔅᑳᒡ ᓂᑲ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐸᑐᑌᔅᑲᓇᐌᐦᑌᓐ ᐁ ᐯᔭᑯᔑᔮᓐ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓅᐦᒋᒦᐦᒡ᙮

ᓂᑖᓂᔅ ᐁ ᐧᐄᒋ ᓇᑕᐧᐃᐦᔦᐧᐁᒥᑦ

ᑕᐧᑳᒋᓐ᙮ ᓈᔥᒡ ᒫᒃ ᓂᒥᐧᔦᔨᐦᑕᒸᓐ ᐊᓄᐦᒌᔥ ᐁ ᐧᐄᒉᐧᐃᑦ ᓂᑖᓂᔅ ᐁ ᓈᓇᑕᐧᐃᐦᔦᐧᐁᐸᔨᔮᓐ᙮ ᓂᔮᓈᓀᐧᐃᐱᐳᐧᓀᓯᐤ ᓂᑖᓂᔅ, ᓂᓃᔥᑕᒨᔖᓐ ᑲᔭᐹ᙮ ᓂᑦᐊᔭᒥᐦᐃᑐᓈᓐ ᒣᐧᑳᒡ ᐁ ᐸᐹᒥᐸᔨᔮᐦᒡ, ᐁ ᒥᐧᔦᔨᐦᑕᒫᐦᒡ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐁ ᐧᐋᓭᔅᐧᑲᓂᔑᔮᐦᒡ᙮

ᓴᔅᒋᑯᒡ ᒉᐱᐦᑕᐧᐁᔮᓐ ᐁ ᐧᐋᐸᒪᐧᑳᐤ ᒥᔥᑎᑯᐦᔦᐧᐊᒡ ᐁ ᓈᓃᐸᐧᐃᐧᑖᐤ ᐊᓐᑌ ᐅᐦᐱᒣᔅᑲᓇᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᒉᐱᐦᒋᐸᔨᐦᑖᔮᓐ ᓅᑖᐹᓐ ᐯᐦᑳᒡ ᒉᒌ ᑲᐹᔮᐦᒡ ᐁ ᐧᐄ ᑲᐧᑫ ᓂᐸᐦᐊᐧᑳᐤ᙮ ᐹᐦᒋᐱᐦᐧᑫᔮᓐ ᐅᑖᐹᓂᐦᒡ ᐁ ᐅᐦᐱᒣ ᓃᐸᔅᑯᔮᐦᒡ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᐧᐁᔮᔅᑯᓂᒉᔮᓐ ᐯᔭᒄ ᐱᔦᐤ ᐁ ᐧᐄ ᐹᔅᒋᓱᒃ᙮ ᒫᔅᑯᐦᐅᒃ! ᐧᐁᐦᐸᐦᐅᐧᑖᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᒌ ᑯᑕᑲᒡ᙮ ᓂᓈᑖᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐱᔦᐤᐦ ᑳ ᐹᔅᒋᐧᓵᒪᒃ ᒉ ᒦᔭᒃ ᓂᑖᓂᔅ ᒉᒌ ᑕᐦᑯᓈᑦ᙮

ᓴᔅᒋᑯᒡ ᒫᒃ ᓂᑌᐧᐹᑎᒄ ᓂᑖᓂᔅ ᐁ ᐃᐧᑌᑦ, ᓅᐦᑖ! ᐁᔥᒄ ᐃᔨᓃᐧᐃᐤ ᐆᐦᐁ ᐱᔦᐤ!

ᐊᓄᐦᒌᔥ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᒫᒥᑐᓀᔨᐦᑕᒧᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ, ᓂᐧᐊᐧᐃᔭᑌᔨᐦᑕᐧᒫᓐ᙮ ᒣᐧᑳᒡ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᑌᑆᔑᑦ, ᒥᒄ ᓂᒌ ᒫᒥᑐᓀᔨᒫᐧᐊᒡ ᑯᑕᑲᒡ ᐱᔦᐧᐊᒡ ᑳ ᑯᑖᐧᐋᔅᑯᐦᔮᐧᑖᐤ᙮ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᓅᐦᒋ ᐃᔅᐱᔒᐙᓐ ᒉᒌ ᐱᓯᔅᑳᑕᒃ᙮

ᒫᒫᐦᒋᑯᓐ ᒥᒃ ᐁᑳ ᒉ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐅᐦᐸᐦᐅᑦ! ᓂᑦᐃᑖᐤ ᐁ ᑯᑖᐧᐋᔅᑯᐦᐊᒫᓐ ᒉᒌ ᓅᓱᓀᐦᐅᐧᑳᐤ ᐊᓂᒌ ᑯᑕᑲᒡ ᐱᔦᐧᐊᒡ᙮ ᐯᐦᑳᒌᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᐯᒋ ᓅᓱᓀᐦᐅᑦ ᓂᑖᓂᔅ᙮

ᒉᒃ ᐧᐃᔮᐸᒪᒃ ᐁ ᐊᑯᓰᑦ ᐯᔭᒄ ᒥᔥᑎᑯᐦᔦᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓭᓭᑳᐦᑎᑯᐦᒡ᙮ ᐁᑳᐧᐄᔾ ᐋᐦᒌ! ᓂᑦᐃᑖᐤ ᓂᑖᓂᔅ ᐁ ᐧᐄ ᐹᔅᒋᐧᓵᒪᒃ᙮ ᐯᐦᒋᔑᐦᒃ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᐱᔦᐤ ᐁ ᐹᔅᒋᓱᒃ, ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒫᒃ ᓅᐦᒋ ᓂᐸᐦᐋᐤ᙮ ᐋᑕ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᒥᔣᑲᓂᐦᑳᑕᒃ, ᒋᐦᒋᐸᐦᑖᐤ ᔮᐱᒡ᙮ ᓂᔮᒋᐸᐦᐊᒃ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒥᔣᑲᓐ ᐁᒄ ᐹᒥᐧᑫᓇᒃ ᐁ ᑳᐦᒋᑎᓇᒃ᙮ ᐧᐁᑎᓈᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐱᔦᐤᐦ ᓂᑖᓂᔅ ᐁ ᒥᔯᔨᐦᑕᐦᒃ ᓀᔥᑦ ᐋᔥ ᐁᑳ ᐊᔮᐦᒌᔨᒡᐦ ᓀᔨᐤᐦ ᐱᔦᐤᐦ ᓃᔥᑕᒻ ᑳ ᑕᐦᑯᓈᑦ᙮ ᓂᔮᓇᑕᐧᐋᐸᒪᒋᐦᐧᑖᐤ ᒫᒃ ᑯᑕᑲᒡ ᐱᔦᐧᐊᒡ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐁ ᐊᔭᐱᐧᑖᐤ᙮ ᐁᔥᐧᑳ ᐹᐦᐹᔅᒋᓱᐧᑳᐤ, ᓂᐧᐄᑕᐱᒥᑐᓈᓐ ᓂᑖᓂᔅ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒧᔥᑕᔅᑲᒥᒡ ᐁ ᐹᐦᐸᔥᑯᐱᒋᒉᔮᐦᒡ᙮ ᓴᔅᒋᑯᒡ ᔑᔮᐧᐹᔅᐧᑫᔮᔥᑕᐧᐁᑦ ᐲᓯᒽ᙮ ᓈᔥᑖᐺ ᒋᔮᒣᔨᐦᑖᐧᑲᓐ᙮

ᒨᔥ ᓂᑲ ᑲᓄ ᒋᔅᒋᓯᓐ ᑳ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᒥᐧᔮᔑᒡ ᓀ ᒌᔑᑳᐤ᙮ ᐊᓄᐦᒌᔥ ᒫᒃ, ᐁᔥᒄ ᓵᑲᔥᒋᓀᐤ ᓂᑌᐦᐄ ᓵᒋᐦᐃᐧᐁᐧᐃᓐ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐁ ᒫᒥᑐᓀᔨᐦᑕᒧᒃ ᑳ ᐧᐄᒋ ᓇᑕᐧᐃᐦᔦᐧᐁᒥᑦ ᓂᑖᓂᔅ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᑳ ᑕᐧᑳᒋᓂᔨᒡ᙮



ᐯᔭᒀᐤ ᒌ ᐃᐦᑖᐗᒡ ᓂᔥᑐ ᒪᔅᑯᒡ ᑳ ᐯᔭᑰᑌᐎᓰᑣᐤ᙮ ᐊᓐ ᑳ ᐅᐦᑖᐐᒫᐎᑦ ᒌ ᒥᔑᒋᑎᐤ᙮ ᐊᓐ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐅᑳᐐᒫᐎᑦ ᓇᐗᒡ ᒌ ᒥᔑᒋᑎᔑᐤ᙮ ᐊᓐ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐊᐙᔑᔒᐎᑦ ᒌ ᐊᐱᔒᔑᔑᐤ᙮ ᐊᓂᒌ ᒪᔅᑯᒡ ᒌ ᐊᔮᐗᒡ ᑳ ᐊᐱᔖᔑᔨᒡ ᐙᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᔑᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓅᐦᒋᒦᐦᒡ᙮ ᒣᔕᑯᒥ ᒌᔑᑳᐤ ᑳ ᐗᓂᔥᑳᑣᐤ ᒨᔥ ᐯᔭᑾᓐ ᒌ ᐊᔨᐦᑎᐗᒡ, ᑳ ᐗᐌᔭᐱᑣᐤ ᒌ ᒦᒋᐗᒡ ᐊᔫᒥᓈᐴᔨᐤ᙮


ᐯᔭᒀᐤ ᐁ ᓃᐱᓂᔨᒡ ᐁ ᒉᒋᔐᐹᔮᔨᒡ, ᐊᓐ ᑳ ᐅᑳᐐᒫᐎᑦ ᒌ ᓰᑲᐦᐊᒻ ᐅᑦᐊᔫᒥᓈᐴᒥᐙᐤ᙮ ᐌᓵ ᒋᔑᑌᐤ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ ᐊᓐ ᒪᔥᑯᔑᔥ ᐁ ᑯᐦᒋᔥᑕᐦᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐅᑦᐊᔫᒥᓈᐴᒻ᙮ ᑕᐦᑲᔥᑖᑖᐤ ᐱᑕᒫ᙮ ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ ᐊᓐ ᑳ ᐅᐦᑖᐐᒫᐎᑦ ᐁ ᑯᐦᒋᔥᑕᐦᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐅᑦᐊᔫᒥᓈᐴᒻ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᒫᒃ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᒋᔖᔥᑌᔨᒡ ᑳ ᐗᔦᔨᐦᑕᐦᒀᐤ ᐊᓂᒌ ᒪᔅᑯᒡ ᒉ ᓇᑕᐎ ᐸᐹᒧᐦᑌᑣᐤ ᐁ ᐊᑎ ᑕᐦᑲᔥᑌᔨᒡ ᐅᒦᒋᒥᐙᐤ᙮


ᒣᒀᒡ ᐁ ᐸᐹᒧᐦᑌᔨᑣᐤᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᔅᑾ, ᐃᔥᑴᔑᔥ ᐌᓵᐙᔨᐦᑴᑦ ᑳ ᐃᔑᓂᐦᑳᓱᑦ ᒌ ᐸᐹ ᐯᔭᑯᐦᑌᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓅᐦᒋᒦᐦᒡ᙮ ᐋᑕ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒉᒋᔐᐹᓀᐦᑴᑦ ᐊᓐ ᐃᔥᑴᔑᔥ, ᔮᐱᒡ ᒌ ᔒᐗᑌᐤ᙮ ᑳ ᐙᐸᐦᑕᒸᑦ ᐅᐙᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᒥᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᔅᑾ, ᒌ ᐃᑌᔨᐦᑕᒻ ᒉᒌ ᒥᔅᑲᐦᒃ ᒉᒀᔨᐤ ᒉᒌ ᒦᒋᑦ᙮ ᒌ ᓈᑌᐤ ᐃᔥᒀᐦᑌᒻᐦ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐹᐦᐹᐗᐦᐙᑦ᙮ ᔮᐱᒡ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᐤ ᐌᓵᐙᔨᐦᑴᑦ ᐋᑕ ᐁᑳ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐯᒋ ᐋᐸᐦᐙᑲᓂᐎᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐃᔥᒀᐦᑌᒻᐦ᙮


ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᑳ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᑦ ᒌ ᐙᐸᐦᑕᒻ ᓂᔥᑐ ᐅᔮᑲᓐᐦ ᐁ ᐊᔥᑌᔨᒀᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒦᒋᓱᓈᐦᑎᑯᐦᒡ᙮ ᑖᐺ ᒌ ᔒᐗᑌᐤ ᐌᓵᐙᔨᐦᑴᑦ᙮ ᒉᒃ ᒌ ᐗᔦᔨᐦᑕᒻ ᒉ ᑯᐦᒋᔥᑕᐦᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐊᔫᒥᓈᐴᔨᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᑳ ᐊᔥᑌᔨᒡ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐅᔮᑲᓂᔨᐤ ᑳ ᒥᔖᔨᒡ᙮ ᐌᓵ ᒋᔑᑌᐤ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᒦᓐ ᑳ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒦᒋᓱᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐅᔮᑲᓂᔨᐤ ᓇᐗᒡ ᑳ ᒥᔖᔑᔨᒡ᙮ ᐆ ᒫᒃ ᐌᓵ ᑕᐦᑳᐤ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᒫᐦᒋᑌᔾ ᑳ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒦᒋᓱᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐅᔮᑲᓂᔑᔨᐤ ᑳ ᐊᐱᔖᔑᔨᒡ᙮ ᐁᐗᑰ ᒫᒃ ᓀᐦᐃᔥᑕᒫᓐ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ ᒣᒀᒡ ᐁ ᒦᒋᓱᑦ᙮


ᑳ ᐃᔥᒀ ᒦᒋᓱᑦ ᐌᓵᐙᔨᐦᑴᑦ, ᒌ ᐐ ᐊᔯᐱᐤ᙮ ᓂᔥᑐ ᑌᐦᑕᐱᐎᓐᐦ ᒌ ᐙᐸᐦᑕᒻ, ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑌᐦᑕᐱᑦ ᐊᓂᑕ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᑳ ᒥᔖᔨᒡ᙮ ᐌᓵ ᒪᔥᑲᐙᐤ ᐆ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᒦᓐ ᐊᓂᑕ ᓇᐗᒡ ᑳ ᒥᔖᔑᔨᒡ ᑳ ᑌᐦᑕᐱᑦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᑗᑦ, ᐆ ᒫᒃ ᐌᓵ ᒪᔫᑳᐤ! ᐁᒄ ᒫᐦᒋᑌᔾ ᐊᓂᑕ ᑳ ᐊᐱᔖᔑᔨᒡ ᑳ ᑌᐦᑕᐱᑦ᙮ ᐁᐗᑰ ᒫᒃ ᓀᐦᐊᐱᔮᓐ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ᙮ ᒥᒄ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐲᑯᔥᑲᒻ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᑌᐦᑕᐱᐎᓂᔑᔨᐤ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᑯᓯᑯᑎᑦ᙮


ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᔅᒀᐦᑕᐐᑦ ᐌᓵᐙᔨᐦᑴᑦ ᐁ ᐊᑎ ᐊᔦᔅᑯᓰᑦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐃᔥᐱᒥᐦᒡ ᑳ ᒥᔅᑲᐦᒃ ᓂᔥᑐ ᓂᐯᐎᓐᐦ᙮ ᓃᔥᑕᒻ ᐊᓂᑕ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᑳ ᒥᔖᔨᒡ ᒌ ᐗᐌᔨᔑᓄ᙮ ᐌᓵ ᓂᒑᐦᑳᔅᑴᔑᓂᓐ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᒦᓐ ᐊᓂᑕ ᑳ ᒥᔖᔑᔨᒡ ᓂᐯᐎᓂᔨᐤ ᑳ ᐗᐌᔨᔑᐦᒃ᙮ ᑳ ᐃᑗᑦ, ᐌᓵ ᓂᑦᐊᒋᑎᔑᓂᓐ! ᐁᒄ ᒫᐦᒋᑌᔾ ᐊᓂᑕ ᑳ ᐊᐱᔖᔑᔨᒡ ᓂᐯᐎᓂᔑᔨᐤ ᑳ ᐗᐌᔨᔑᐦᒃ᙮ ᐁᐗᑰ ᒫᒃ ᓀᐦᐃᔑᓂᔮᓐ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑲᐎᐦᑯᔑᑦ᙮


ᑳ ᑕᑯᔑᐦᒀᐤ ᐊᓂᒌ ᓂᔥᑐ ᒪᔅᑯᒡ, ᒌ ᐱᓯᔅᑳᐸᐦᑕᒧᒡ ᐁ ᐲᑐᔑᓈᑾᓂᔨᒡ ᐅᐙᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᒥᐙᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᑗᑦ ᐊᓐ ᑳ ᐅᐦᑖᐐᒫᐎᑦ, ᒌ ᑯᒋᔥᑕᒧᑯᐸᓀ ᐊᐌᓐ ᓂᑦᐊᔫᒥᓈᐴᒥᔨᐤ! ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᑗᑦ ᐊᓐ ᑳ ᐅᑳᐐᒫᐎᑦ, ᒌ ᑯᒋᔥᑕᒧᑯᐸᓀ ᓀᔥᑕᓃᔾ ᐊᐌᓐ ᓂᑦᐊᔫᒥᓈᐴᒥᔨᐤ! ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᑗᑦ ᐊᓐ ᒪᔥᑯᔑᔥ, ᒌ ᒦᒋᑯᐸᓀ ᐊᐌᓐ ᓂᑦᐊᔫᒥᓈᐴᒥᔨᐤ ᓃᔾ! ᒌ ᒋᑖᑲᓂᐎᐤ ᒫᒃ!


ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᑳ ᐙᐸᐦᑕᐦᒃ ᑳ ᒥᔖᔨᒡ ᐅᑌᐦᑕᐱᐎᓐ ᐊᓐ ᐅᐦᑖᐐᒫᐤ ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ, ᒌ ᑌᐦᑕᐱᑯᐸᓀ ᐊᐌᓐ ᓂᑌᐦᑕᐱᐎᓂᐦᒡ! ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᑗᑦ ᐊᓐ ᐅᑳᐐᒫᐤ, ᒌ ᑌᐦᑕᐱᑯᐸᓀ ᓀᔥᑕᓃᔾ ᐊᐌᓐ ᓂᑌᐦᑕᐱᐎᓂᐦᒡ! ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᑗᑦ ᐊᓐ ᒪᔥᑯᔑᔥ, ᓀᔥᑕᓃᔾ ᒌ ᑌᐦᑕᐱᑯᐸᓀ ᐊᐌᓐ ᓂᑌᐦᑕᐱᐎᓂᐦᒡ! ᒌ ᐲᑯᔥᑭᑳᑌᐤ ᒫᒃ! ᐁᒄ ᐯᐦᑳᒡ ᑳ ᐃᔅᒀᐦᑕᐐᑣᐤ ᐊᓂᒌ ᒪᔅᑯᒡ᙮


ᒌ ᓃᐹᑯᐸᓀ ᐊᐌᓐ ᓂᓂᐯᐎᓂᐦᒡ! ᒌ ᐃᑌᐤ ᐊᓐ ᑳ ᐅᐦᑖᐐᒫᐎᑦ᙮ ᒌ ᓂᐹᑯᐸᓀ ᓀᔥᑕᓃᔾ ᓂᓂᐯᐎᓂᐦᒡ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ ᐊᓐ ᑳ ᐅᑳᐐᒫᐎᑦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᑗᑦ ᐊᓐ ᒪᔥᑯᔑᔥ, ᓀᔥᑕᓃᔾ, ᐁᔥᒄ ᒫᒃ ᓂᐹᐤ!


ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐗᔅᐹᐌᒫᑲᓂᐎᑦ ᐌᓵᐙᔨᐦᑴᑦ᙮ ᑳ ᐙᐸᒫᑦ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᔅᑾ, ᒌ ᐗᔭᐐ ᒀᔥᑯᐦᑎᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐙᓭᓂᐦᑖᑲᓂᐦᒡ, ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐅᔑᒧᑦ᙮ ᐊᓂᒌ ᒫᒃ ᒪᔅᑯᒡ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᒦᓐ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐙᐸᒣᐗᒡ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐌᓵᐙᔨᐦᑴᔨᒡᐦ᙮

ᑳ ᓲᐦᒋᑌᐦᐁᑦ ᐱᔦᔒᔥ


ᒌ ᐅᐗᒋᔥᑐᓂᐗᒡ ᐱᔦᔒᔕᒡ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐅᑖᐹᓂᑲᒥᑯᐦᒡ᙮ ᐯᔭᒀᐤ, ᒌ ᐗᔭᐐᐦᔮᐗᒡ ᐅᓃᒋᐦᐃᑯᒫᐗᒡ ᐁ ᐐ ᓈᒋᒦᒋᒣᐙᑣᐤ ᒉᒌ ᐊᔕᒫᑣᐤ ᐅᑦᐊᐙᔑᒥᔑᐙᐤᐦ᙮ ᐌᔭᐱᔥᒌᔥ ᒥᒄ ᒌ ᓇᑲᑖᑲᓂᐎᐗᒡ ᐊᓂᒌ ᐸᔭᒑᓂᔕᒡ᙮

ᓈᒉᔒᔥ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐯᒋ ᒌᐌᐦᔮᐤ ᐅᐦᑖᐐᒫᐤ᙮ ᑖᓐ ᐁᐦᒡ? ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ, ᐊᐌᓐ ᑳ ᐋᐦᑯᐦᐃᑖᒄ? ᒬᐦᒡ ᐁ ᑯᔥᑖᒋᔦᒄ ᒋᑦᐃᔑᓈᑯᓯᓈᐙᐤ᙮

ᓅᐦᑖ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐗᒡ, ᐊᐌᓰᔅ ᑳ ᒥᔥᑕ ᑯᔥᑖᓯᓈᑯᓯᑦ ᒌ ᑕᑯᔑᓄ᙮ ᓈᔥᒡ ᒌ ᐯᒋ ᒫᒪᐦᑲᒑᐱᐤ ᐁ ᐯᒋ ᑲᓇᐙᐸᐦᑕᐦᒃ ᒋᐗᒋᔥᑐᓂᓈᐦᒡ᙮ ᓈᔥᒡ ᓂᒌ ᑯᔥᑖᒋᐦᐃᑯᓈᓐ!

ᐁᒄ ᐌᓵ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ ᐊᓐ ᐱᔦᔒᔥ ᑳ ᐅᐦᑖᐐᒫᐎᑦ, ᑖᓂᑌ ᑳ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᑦ?

ᓀᑌ ᒌ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᐤ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐗᒡ ᐸᔭᒑᓂᔕᒡ᙮

ᐁᔥᒄ ᐱᑕᒫ! ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ ᐊᓐ ᐅᐦᑖᐐᒫᐤ, ᓂᑲ ᓈᓇᑕᐙᐸᒫᐤ᙮ ᐁᑳᐐᔾ ᐋᔨᒣᔨᐦᑕᒧᒄ, ᓂᑦᐊᐙᔑᒥᔑᑎᒄ! ᓂᑲ ᐊᑎᒪᐦᐙᐤ᙮ ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᒋᐦᒋᐦᔮᑦ᙮

ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᓵᒉᐌᐦᔮᑦ, ᒌ ᐙᐸᒣᐤ ᑳ ᐱᒧᐦᑌᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤᐦ᙮ ᓇᒪᐙᒡ ᒫᒃ ᐅᐦᒋ ᑯᔥᑖᒋᐤ ᐊᓐ ᐱᔦᔒᔥ᙮ ᒌ ᑗᐦᐅᑐᑕᐌᐤ ᐊᓂᑕ ᐅᔅᐱᔅᑾᓈᔩᐦᒡ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤᐦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐊᑎ ᒋᑕᐦᐊᒪᐙᑦ ᐁ ᐃᑗᑦ, ᒉᒀᓐ ᐌᐦᒋ ᑕᑯᔑᓂᔭᓐ ᓃᒋᓈᓂᐦᒡ ᐁ ᐯᒋ ᑯᔥᑖᒋᐦᐊᑣᐤ ᓂᑦᐊᐙᔑᒥᔕᒡ? ᒥᒄ ᒫᒃ ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐱᓯᔅᑳᑎᑯᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒥᔑᐱᔑᐤᐦ᙮

ᐊᓐ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒋᔗᐌᑦ ᐱᔦᔒᔥ ᐋᐦᒋᑯᒡ ᒌ ᒋᑕᐦᐊᒪᐌᐤ ᐁ ᐃᑗᑦ, ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᐃᑌᔨᐦᑖᑾᓐ ᒉᒌ ᐊᔨᐦᑖᔭᓐ ᐆᑕ! ᒦᓐ ᒫᒃ ᑕᑯᔑᓂᔭᓀ, ᒋᑲ ᐙᐸᐦᑌᓐ! ᓇᒪᐐᔾ ᑖᐺ ᒋᐐ ᐃᐦᑑᑖᑎᓐ, ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ ᒣᒀᒡ ᐁ ᐅᐦᐱᑳᑌᐸᔨᐦᐅᑦ, ᒥᒄ ᒫᒃ ᒋᑲ ᓈᑣᔮᐎᑲᓀᔥᑳᑎᓐ!

ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᒌᐌᐦᔮᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐅᐗᒋᔥᑐᓂᐦᒡ᙮ ᒉᒃ ᒌ ᐃᑗᐤ, ᐁᑯᑌ ᓂᑦᐊᐙᔑᒥᔑᑎᒄ! ᓂᒌ ᒋᔅᒋᓄᐦᐊᒪᐙᐤ ᐊᓐ ᐊᐌᓰᔅ ᐁᑳ ᒦᓐ ᒉ ᐅᐦᒋ ᑕᑯᔑᐦᒃ!

ᑳ ᓂᔥᑎᔑᐧᑖᐤ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔕᒡ

ᒌ ᐃᐦᑖᐤ ᐯᔭᐧᑳᐤ ᓅᔐ ᑰᐦᑰᔥ ᑳ ᒋᔐᔨᓃᐧᐃᑦ ᐁᑳ ᑳ ᐃᔅᐸᔨᐧᐋᑦ ᒉᒌ ᐊᔕᒫᑦ ᐅᑦᐊᐧᐋᔑᔒᒻᐦ ᑳ ᓂᔥᑎᔑᔨᐧᑖᐤᐦ᙮ ᒌ ᒋᐦᒋᑎᔕᐦᐧᐁᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐸᐦᑳᓐ ᒉᒌ ᐱᒫᒋᐦᐅᔨᐧᑖᐤᐦ᙮ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒫᒃ ᓃᔥᑕᒻ ᑳ ᒋᐦᑐᐦᑌᑦ ᒌ ᓇᒋᔥᑲᐧᐁᐤ ᐃᔨᓂᐤᐦ ᑳ ᐊᔮᔨᒡᐦ ᒪᔥᑯᔒᐦᑳᓂᔨᐤ᙮ ᒌ ᐃᑌᐤ ᒫᒃ, ᐯᒋ ᒦᔨᐦ ᒫ ᒋᒪᔥᑯᔒᐦᑳᓐ ᒉᒌ ᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᐦᑳᒉᔮᓐ᙮

ᐁᐧᐊᒄ ᑖᐧᐯ ᑳ ᐃᐦᑑᑕᒥᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᓈᐯᐤᐦ, ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᐦᑳᒉᑦ ᐊᓐ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ᙮ ᒉᒃ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐅᑎᐦᑕᐧᒫᑦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ ᐅᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᒥᔩᐦᒡ᙮ ᑳ ᐹᐦᐹᐧᐊᐦᐃᒉᑦ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐃᐧᑌᐤ, ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ! ᐯᒋ ᐋᐸᐦᐊᒪᐤᐦ ᒫ ᐃᔥᐧᑳᐦᑌᒻ ᒉᒌ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᔮᓐ!

ᓇᒪᐧᐄᔾ ᐧᐄᔅᑳᑦ! ᒌ ᐃᐧᑌᐤ ᐊᓐ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ᙮

ᒌ ᓇᔥᐧᑫᐧᐊᔑᐦᐁᐤ ᒫᒃ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ, ᐁᑳ ᐧᐄ ᐋᐸᐦᐊᒪᐧᐃᔭᓀ, ᓲᐦᒃ ᓂᑲ ᐴᑖᑌᓐ ᒋᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᒻ ᒉᒌ ᑲᐧᐋᔥᑎᑖᔮᓐ!

ᒉᒃ ᒥᔥᑕᐦᐃ ᑳ ᐃᔅᑯᑖᒧᐧᐋᑦ, ᑳ ᐴᑖᒋᒉᐧᐋᑦ, ᓀᔥᑦ ᑳ ᑲᐧᐋᔥᑎᑖᐧᐋᑦ ᐅᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᒥᔨᐤ᙮ ᑖᐧᐯ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒧᐧᐋᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔕ᙮

ᐊᓐ ᒫᒃ ᑯᑕᒃ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ ᑳ ᒋᐦᑐᐦᑌᑦ ᒌ ᓇᒋᔥᑲᐧᐁᐤ ᐃᔨᓂᐤᐦ ᑳ ᐊᔮᔨᒡᐦ ᒥᐦᒉᑦ ᓃᐱᓯᔮᐦᑎᐧᑲ᙮ ᒌ ᐃᑌᐤ ᒫᒃ, ᐯᒌ ᒦᔨᐦ ᒫ ᒋᓃᐱᓯᔮᐦᑎᑯᒻᐦ ᒉᒌ ᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᐦᑳᒉᔮᓐ᙮

ᐁᐧᐊᒄ ᑖᐧᐯ ᑳ ᐃᐦᑑᑕᒥᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᓈᐯᐤᐦ, ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᐦᑳᒉᑦ ᐊᓐ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ᙮ ᒉᒃ ᑳ ᑕᑯᔑᐦᒃ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ ᐁ ᐃᑖᑦ, ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ! ᐯᒋ ᐋᐸᐦᐊᒪᐤᐦ ᒫ ᐃᔥᐧᑳᐦᑌᒻ ᒉᒌ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᔮᓐ!

ᓇᒪᐧᐄᔾ ᐧᐄᔅᑳᑦ! ᒌ ᐃᐧᑌᐤ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ᙮

ᐁᑳ ᐧᐄ ᐋᐸᐦᐊᒪᐧᐃᔭᓀ, ᓲᐦᒃ ᓂᑲ ᐴᑖᑌᓐ ᒋᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᒻ ᒉᒌ ᑲᐧᐋᔥᑎᑖᔮᓐ!

ᒉᒃ ᒥᔥᑕᐦᐃ ᑳ ᐃᔅᑯᑖᒧᐧᐋᑦ, ᑳ ᐴᑖᒋᒉᐧᐋᑦ, ᓀᔥᑦ ᑳ ᑲᐧᐋᔥᑎᑖᐧᐋᑦ ᐅᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᒥᔨᐤ᙮ ᑖᐧᐯ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒧᐧᐋᑲᓂᐧᐃᑦ ᐧᐁᔥᑕᐧᐄᔾ᙮

ᐊᓐ ᒫᒃ ᒫᐦᒋᑌᔾ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ ᒌ ᓇᒋᔥᑲᐧᐁᐤ ᐃᔨᓂᐤᐦ ᑳ ᐊᔮᔨᒡᐦ ᒥᐦᒉᑦ ᐊᓯᓃᐦᑳᓐᐦ᙮ ᒌ ᐃᑌᐤ, ᐯᒋ ᒦᔨᐦ ᒫ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᓯᓃᐦᑳᓐᐦ ᒉᒌ ᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᐦᑳᒉᔮᓐ᙮

ᒌ ᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᐦᑳᒉᐤ ᑲᔭᐹ ᑳ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒦᔨᑯᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᓯᓃᐦᑳᓐᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐃᔨᓂᐤᐦ᙮ ᒉᒃ ᒌ ᑕᑯᔑᓄ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ ᐁ ᐃᑖᑦ ᐧᒣᐦᒡ ᑳ ᐃᑖᑦ ᑯᑕᒃᐦ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔕ, ᐯᒋ ᐋᐸᐦᐊᒪᐤᐦ ᒫ ᐃᔥᐧᑳᐦᑌᒻ ᒉᒌ ᐲᐦᑐᒉᔮᓐ!

ᓇᒪᐧᐄᔾ ᐧᐄᔅᑳᑦ!

ᐁᑳ ᐧᐄ ᐋᐸᐦᐊᒪᐧᐃᔭᓀ, ᓲᐦᒃ ᓂᑲ ᐴᑖᑌᓐ ᒋᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᒻ ᒉᒌ ᑲᐧᐋᔥᑎᑖᔮᓐ!

ᒉᒃ ᒥᔥᑕᐦᐃ ᑳ ᐃᔅᑯᑖᒧᐧᐋᑦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᒥᐦᒉᐧᑖᐤ ᑳ ᐴᑖᒋᒉᐧᐋᑦ᙮ ᓲᐦᒃ, ᓲᐦᒃ, ᓲᐦᒃ ᒌ ᐴᑖᑕᐧᒣᐤ᙮ ᒥᒄ ᒫᒃ ᓇᒪᐧᐄᔾ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒌ ᑲᐧᐋᔥᑎᑖᐧᐁᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ ᐅᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᒥᔨᐤ᙮ ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᑳ ᒋᔅᒉᔨᐦᑕᐦᒃ ᐁᑳ ᐅᐦᒋ ᒌ ᑲᐧᐋᔥᑎᑖᐧᐋᑦ, ᒌ ᐃᐧᑌᐤ, ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ! ᓂᒋᔅᒉᔨᐦᑌᓐ ᑖᓂᑦᐦ ᐧᐁᑎᓰᐦᑳᓂᔅᑳᒡ᙮

ᑖᓂᑌ? ᐃᐧᑌᐤ ᐊᓐ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ᙮

ᐯᔓᒡ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓂᐦᑖᐧᐃᒋᐦᒋᑲᓂᐦᒡ᙮ ᐊᔦᔅᑲᐧᐄᔭᓀ ᐧᐋᐸᐦᒉ ᐁ ᒉᒋᔐᐹᔮᒡ, ᒋᑲ ᐯᒋ ᑌᐧᐹᑎᑎᓐ ᒫᒨ ᒉᒌ ᓇᑕᐧᐃ ᒫᒨᔥᒋᓇᒪᐦᒄ ᒉᒌ ᒦᒋᓱᔭᐦᒄ

ᐁᑯᑌ, ᒌ ᐃᐧᑌᐤ ᐊᓐ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ, ᐧᐄᐸᒡ ᓂᑲ ᓂᓵᐧᐄᓐ᙮ ᑖᓂᔅᐱᔥ ᐧᐋ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᔭᓐ?

ᐊᔨᐦᐁ, ᓂᑯᐧᑖᔅ ᐃᔅᐸᔨᐦᒉ᙮ ᒌ ᐃᐧᑌᐤ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ᙮

ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒫᒃ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ ᒌ ᐧᐊᓂᔥᑳᐤ ᓂᔮᔭᓐ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑᐸᔨᓂᔨᒡ ᐁᒄ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᓈᑕᐦᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐅᑎᓰᐦᑳᓐᐦ ᐧᐹᒧᔥ ᑳ ᑕᑯᔑᓂᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ᙮ ᐁᑯ ᑳ ᐃᑎᑯᑦ,

ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ! ᐋᔥ ᐋ ᒋᑦᐃᔥᐧᑳ ᐊᔦᔅᑲᐧᐄᓐ?

ᐋᔥ! ᒌ ᐃᐧᑌᐤ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ, ᐧᐄᐸᒡ ᓂᒌ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᔮᓐ ᐊᓂᑌ᙮ ᓂᒌ ᐯᒋ ᒌᐧᐁᐦᑌᓐ ᑳ ᐃᔥᐧᑳ  ᓵᑲᔥᒋᓇᐦᐊᒃ ᓂᑦᐊᔅᒋᐦᒄ᙮

ᒌ ᒋᔑᐧᐋᐦᐃᑯᐧᐁᐤ ᒫᒃ ᒫᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ ᐁ ᐯᐦᑕᐧᒫᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤ, ᒥᒄ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᒉᔥᑎᓈᐦᐅᐤ ᒉᒌ ᐱᔒᐧᐊᔮᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔕ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᐧᑌᑦ,

ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ! ᓂᒋᔅᒉᔨᒫᐤ ᑖᓂᑦᐦ ᐁᐦᑖᑦ ᐧᐋᐱᒥᓈᐦᑎᒄ ᐁ ᒥᐧᔮᔅᑯᓯᑦ᙮

ᑖᓂᑌ? ᐃᐧᑌᐤ ᐊᓐ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ᙮

ᐯᔓᒡ ᐊᓂᑌ ᓂᐦᑖᐧᐃᒋᐦᒋᑲᓂᐦᒡ᙮ ᒌ ᐃᐧᑌᐤ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ, ᐁᑳ ᒫᒃ ᒋᐧᔮᐦᐃᔭᓀ, ᒋᑲ ᐯᒋ ᓇᑕᐧᐋᐸᒥᑎᓐ ᐧᐋᐸᐦᒉ, ᓂᔮᔭᓐ ᐃᔅᐱᔑᐸᔨᐦᒉ, ᒉᒌ ᒥᓈᐦᐅᔭᐦᒄ ᐧᐋᐱᒥᓇᒡ᙮

ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒫᒃ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ ᒌ ᐹᐦᐹᔒᐤ ᒉ ᒋᐦᑐᐦᑌᑦ ᓀᐤ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑᐸᔨᓂᔨᒡ ᑳᐤ ᒉᒌ ᑕᑯᔑᐦᒃ ᐁᔥᒄ ᐁᑳ ᑕᑯᔑᓂᔨᒡᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ᙮ ᒌ ᓇᑕᐧᐁᔨᐦᑖᐧᑲᓂᔨᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐊᐧᐊᔥᑌᔒᔥ ᒉ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᑦ ᓀᔥᑦ ᒉ ᐊᑯᓰᑦ ᒥᔥᑎᑯᐦᒡ᙮

ᓀᐧᐃᔥ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐃᐦᑖᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᒥᔥᑎᑯᐦᒡ, ᒌ ᐃᑌᔨᐦᑕᒻ ᐋᔥ ᑳ ᐅᑎᐦᒋᐸᔨᓂᔨᒡ ᒉ ᒌᐧᐁᑦ᙮ ᑳ ᓃᔖᐦᑕᐧᐄᑦ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒥᔥᑎᐧᑲ, ᒌ ᓴᔅᒋᐧᑳᐸᒣᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ ᐁ ᐹᐸᐦᑖᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᒉᒫᓂᒻ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᑯᔥᑖᒋᐤ ᐁ ᐧᐋᐸᒫᑦ᙮ ᒌ ᐃᑎᑯᐤ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ ᑳ ᑕᑯᔑᓂᔨᒡᐦ,

ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ! ᒉᐧᑳᓐ ᐧᐁᐦᒋ ᐁᑳ ᐅᐦᒋ ᐯᐦᐃᔭᓐ? ᒥᔪᒥᓇᒋᓯᐧᐊᒡ ᐋ ᐧᐋᐱᒥᓇᒡ?

ᐁᐦᐁ! ᒌ ᐃᐧᑌᐤ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ, ᐯᔭᒄ ᒋᑲ ᓃᐦᒋᐧᐁᐱᓇᒫᑎᓐ᙮

ᐁᒄ ᐧᐋᐦᔭᐤ ᑳ ᐃᔑᐧᐁᐱᓇᒪᐧᐋᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ᙮ ᒣᐧᑳᒡ ᒫᒃ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ ᑳ ᓈᒋᐸᐦᐋᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐧᐋᐸᒥᓐᐦ, ᒌ ᐋᒥ ᐧᑳᔥᑯᐦᑎᔨᐤᐦ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔕ ᒉ ᒋᐧᐁᐸᐦᑖᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᒦᓐ ᑳ ᒌᔑᑳᔨᒡ, ᒌ ᑕᑯᔑᓄ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ ᐁ ᐃᑖᑦ,

ᑰᐦᑯᔑᔥ! ᑲᑕ ᒪᑯᔖᓂᐧᐃᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐅᑌᓈᐦᒡ ᐧᐋᐸᐦᒉ᙮ ᒋᐧᐄ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᓐ ᐋ?

ᐁᐦᐁ! ᒌ ᐃᐧᑌᐤ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ, ᑖᓐ ᒉ ᐃᔅᐱᔑᐸᔨᐦᒡ ᒉ ᐃᔥᐧᑳ ᐊᔦᔅᑲᐧᐄᔭᓐ?

ᓂᔥᑐ ᐃᔅᐸᔨᐦᒉ! ᒌ ᐃᐧᑌᐤ ᐊᓐ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ᙮ ᒦᓐ ᒫᒃ ᐧᐄᐸᒡ ᑳ ᒋᐦᑐᐦᑌᑦ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ ᐁ ᐧᐄ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐁ ᒪᑯᔖᓂᐧᐃᔨᒡ᙮ ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒌᔑ ᒥᒋᓱᑦ, ᒌ ᒌᐧᐁᐦᑕᑖᐤ ᐃᔥᑯᐦᒋᑲᓐᐦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐊᔅᒋᐦᑯᐦᒡ᙮ ᒦᓐ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᓴᔅᒋᐧᑳᐸᒫᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ ᐁ ᐹᐸᐦᑖᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᑳ ᐧᑮᑕᐤ ᐊᔨᐦᑎᑦ ᒫᒃ, ᒌ ᐴᐦᒋ ᐧᑳᔥᑯᐦᑎᐤ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐊᔅᒋᐦᑯᐦᒡ ᒉᒌ ᑳᓱᑦ, ᒥᒄ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐅᐦᐱᒣᐸᔨᐤ᙮ ᓴᔅᒋᑯᒡ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐱᓇᐧᓭᐸᔨᐤ ᐊᓐ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ ᒣᐧᑳᒡ ᑳ ᐴᐦᑕᐱᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐊᔅᒋᐦᑯᐦᒡ! ᒌ ᒌᐧᐁᐸᐦᑖᐤ ᒫᒃ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ ᐁ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᑳᔥᑖᒋᐦᐃᑯᑦ ᑳ ᐧᐋᐸᒫᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᔅᒋᐦᐧᑲ ᐁ ᐯᒋ ᐱᓇᐧᓭᐸᔨᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᐧᐋᑦ ᐅᐧᐋᔅᑳᐦᐃᑲᓂᒥᔩᐦᒡ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔕ ᒉ ᐧᐄᐦᑕᒪᐧᐋᑦ ᑖᓐ ᑳ ᐃᔅᐱᔑ ᑯᔥᑖᒋᑦ ᐁ ᒌ ᐧᐋᐸᒫᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᔅᒋᐦᐧᑲ ᑳ ᐱᓇᐧᓭᐸᔨᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᐃᑎᑯᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔕ,

ᐊᐦᐋ! ᒋᒌ ᓭᒋᐦᐃᑎᓐ, ᓇ! ᐋᔥ ᓂᒌ ᐃᑐᐦᑌᓐ ᐊᓂᑌ ᑳ ᒪᑯᔖᓂᐧᐃᒡ᙮ ᑳ ᒌᐧᐁᐦᑕᐦᐊᒃ ᒫᒃ ᐊᔅᒋᐦᒄ, ᒋᒌ ᐧᐋᐸᒥᑎᓐ᙮ ᐁᑯᑦᐦ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐴᐦᒋ ᐧᑳᔥᑯᐦᑎᔮᓐ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐊᔅᒋᐦᑯᐦᒡ ᒉᒌ ᐱᓇᐧᓭᐸᔨᔮᓐ!

ᑳ ᓲᐦᒋᔭᐧᐁᓯᐧᐋᑦ ᒫᒃ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐ ᐁ ᐯᐦᑕᐧᒫᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ᙮ ᐋᔨᑌ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐃᑎᑎᓱᐤ ᒉ ᓃᔖᐦᑕᐧᐄᐧᐋᑦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐅᑯᐦᑖᑲᓂᒥᔩᐦᒡ ᒉ ᓇᑕᐧᐃ ᒧᐧᐋᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔕ᙮ ᐃᔥᑯᑕᒃ ᑳ ᐧᐋᐸᒫᑦ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ ᑖᓐ ᐁᔨᑎᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ, ᒌ ᐊᑯᑌᐤ ᐊᔅᒋᐦᐧᑲ ᑳ ᓵᑲᔥᒋᓀᐯᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᑌ ᐃᔥᑯᑌᐦᒡ, ᐁᒄ ᑳ ᑯᑕᐧᐁᑦ᙮ ᐧᒣᐦᒡ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᐯᒋ ᓃᔖᐦᑕᐧᐄᔨᒡᐦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ, ᐊᓐ ᑰᐦᑰᔑᔥ ᒌ ᐋᐸᐦᐧᐁᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᔅᒋᐦᐧᑲ ᒉᒌ ᐴᐦᒋᐸᔨᔨᒡᐦ᙮ ᑳᐤ ᒫᒃ ᒌ ᐊᑯᓈᐧᐯᐦᐧᐁᐤ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᐊᔅᒋᐦᐧᑲ ᒉᒌ ᐸᑳᔑᒫᑦ ᐊᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᒪᐦᐄᐦᑲᓐᐦ᙮ ᑳ ᓃᐯᐦᐧᑫᑦ ᒫᒃ, ᐁᐧᐊᐧᑲᓂᔨᐤᐦ ᑳ ᒧᐧᐋᑦ᙮ ᐁᒄ ᒫᒃ ᑳ ᒥᐧᔦᔨᐦᑕᐦᒃ ᐊᓂᐦᐁ ᑰᐦᑯᔑᔥ, ᑳᒋᒉ ᓀᔥᑦ ᑳᒋᒉ᙮