Part 17

“The lubber-cheeked old Gopher! I wish the pests were all in the Land of Demons!” cried he. “They dig their holes, and nobody can go anywhere in safety. And now I have forgotten my song. Well, I will run back and get the old Locust to sing it over again. If he can sit there singing to himself, why can’t he sing it to me? No doubt in the world he is still out there on that piñon branch singing away.” Saying which, he ran back as fast as he could. When he arrived at the piñon tree, sure enough, there was the old Locust still sitting and singing.

“Now, how lucky this is, my friend!” cried the Coyote, long before he had reached the place. “The lubber-cheeked, fat-sided old Gopher dug a hole right in my path; and I went along singing your delightful song and was so busy with it that I fell headlong into the trap he had set for me, and I was so startled that, on my word, I forgot all about the song, and I have come back to ask you to sing it for me again.”

“Very well,” said the Locust. “Be more careful this time.” So he sang the song over.

“Good! Surely I’ll not forget it this time,” cried the Coyote; so he whisked about, and away he sped toward his home beyond the headland of rocks. “Goodness!” said he to himself, as he went along; “what a fine thing this will be for my children! How they will be quieted by it when I dance them as I sing it! Let’s see how it runs. Oh, yes!

“_Tchumali, tchumali, shohkoya, Tchumali, tchumali, shohko_--”

_Thli-i-i-i-i-p, piu-piu, piu-piu!_ fluttered a flock of Pigeons out of the bushes at his very feet, with such a whizzing and whistling that the Coyote nearly tumbled over with fright, and, recovering himself, cursed the Doves heartily, calling them “gray-backed, useless sage-vermin”; and, between his fright and his anger, was so much shaken up that he again forgot his song.

Now, the Locust wisely concluded that this would be the case, and as he did not like the Coyote very well, having been told that sometimes members of his tribe were by no means friendly to Locusts and other insects, he concluded to play him a trick and teach him a lesson in the minding of his own affairs. So, catching tight hold of the bark, he swelled himself up and strained until his back split open; then he skinned himself out of his old skin, and, crawling down the tree, found a suitable quartz stone, which, being light-colored and clear, would not make his skin look unlike himself. He took the stone up the tree and carefully placed it in the empty skin. Then he cemented the back together with a little pitch and left his exact counterfeit sticking to the bark, after which he flew away to a neighboring tree.

No sooner had the Coyote recovered his equanimity to some extent than, discovering the loss of his song and again exclaiming “No doubt he is still there piping away; I’ll go and get him to sing it over,”--he ran back as fast as he could.

“Ah wha!” he exclaimed, as he neared the tree. “I am quite fatigued with all this extra running about. But, no matter; I see you are still there, my friend. A lot of miserable, gray-backed Ground-pigeons flew up right from under me as I was going along singing my song, and they startled me so that I forgot it; but I tell you, I cursed them heartily! Now, my friend, will you not be good enough to sing once more for me?”

He paused for a reply. None came.

“Why, what’s the matter? Don’t you hear me?” yelled the Coyote, running nearer, looking closely, and scrutinizing the Locust. “I say, I have lost my song, and want you to sing for me again. Will you, or will you not?” Then he paused.

“Look here, are you going to sing for me or not?” continued the Coyote, getting angry.

No reply.

The Coyote stretched out his nose, wrinkled up his lips, and snarled: “Look here, do you see my teeth? Well, I’ll ask you just four times more to sing for me, and if you don’t sing then, I’ll snap you up in a hurry, I tell you. Will--you--sing--for me? Once. Will you sing--for me? Twice. Two more times! Look out! Will you sing for me? Are you a fool? Do you see my teeth? Only once more! Will--you--sing--for me?”

No reply.

“Well, you are a fool!” yelled the Coyote, unable to restrain himself longer, and making a quick jump, he snapped the Locust skin off of the bough, and bit it so hard that it crushed and broke the teeth in the middle of his jaw, driving some of them so far down in his gums that you could hardly see them, and crowding the others out so that they were regular tusks. The Coyote dropped the stone, rolled in the sand, and howled and snarled and wriggled with pain. Then he got up and shook his head, and ran away with his tail between his legs. So excessive was his pain that at the first brook he came to he stooped down to lap up water in order to alleviate it, and he there beheld what you and I see in the mouths of every Coyote we ever catch,--that the teeth back of the canines are all driven down, so that you can see only the points of them, and look very much broken up.

In the days of the ancients the Coyote minded not his own business and restrained not his anger. So he bit a Locust that was only the skin of one with a stone inside. And all his descendants have inherited his broken teeth. And so also to this day, when Locusts venture out on a sunny morning to sing a song, it is not infrequently their custom to protect themselves from the consequences of attracting too much attention by skinning themselves and leaving their counterparts on the trees.

Thus shortens my story.

THE COYOTE AND THE RAVENS WHO RACED THEIR EYES

Long, long ago, in the days of the ancients, there lived in Hómaiakwin, or the Cañon of the Cedars, a Coyote,--doubtless the same one I have told you of as having made friends with the Woodpounder bird. As you know, this cañon in which he lived is below the high eastern cliff of Face Mountain.

This Coyote was out walking one day. On leaving his house he had said that he was going hunting; but,--miserable fellow!--who ever knew a Coyote to catch anything, unless it were a prairie-dog or a wood-rat or a locust or something of the kind? So you may depend upon it he was out walking; that is, wandering around to see what he could see.

He crossed over the valley northward, with his tail dragging along in an indifferent sort of a way, until he came to the place on Thunder Mountain called Shoton-pia (“Where the Shell Breastplate Hangs”). He climbed up the foot-hills, and along the terraces at the base of the cliff, and thus happened to get toward the southeastern corner of the mountain. There is a little column of rock with a round top to it standing there, as you know, to this day.

Now, on the top of this standing rock sat two old Ravens, racing their eyes. One of them would settle himself down on the rock and point with his beak straight off across the valley to some pinnacle in the cliffs of the opposite mesa. Then he would say to his companion, without turning his head at all: “You see that rock yonder? Well, ahem! Standing rock yonder, round you, go ye my eyes and come back.” Then he would lower his head, stiffen his neck, squeeze his eyelids, and “_Pop!_” he would say as his eyes flew out of their sockets, and sailed away toward the rock like two streaks of lightning, reaching which they would go round it, and come back toward the Raven; and as they were coming back, he would swell up his throat and say “_Whu-u-u-u-u-u-u_,”--whereupon his eyes would slide with a _k’othlo!_ into their sockets again. Then he would turn toward his companion, and swelling up his throat still more, and ducking his head just as if he were trying to vomit his own neck, he would laugh inordinately; and the other would laugh with him, bristling up all the feathers on his body.

Then the other one would settle himself, and say: “Ah, I’ll better you! You see that rock away yonder?” Then he would begin to squeeze his eyelids, and _thlut!_ his eyes would fly out of their sockets and away across the mesa and round the rock he had named; and as they flew back, he would lower himself, and say “_Whu-u-u-u-u-u-u_,” when _k’othlo!_ the eyes would slide into their sockets again. Then, as much amused as ever, the Ravens would laugh at one another again.

Now, the Coyote heard the Ravens humming their eyes back into their sockets; and the sound they made, as well as the way they laughed so heartily, exceedingly pleased him, so that he stuck his tail up very straight and laughed merely from seeing them laugh. Presently he could contain himself no longer. “Friends,” he cried, in a shrieky little voice, “I say, friends, how do you do, and what are you doing?”

The Ravens looked down, and when they saw the Coyote they laughed and punched one another with their wings and cried out to him: “Bless you! Glad to see you come!”

“What is it you are doing?” asked he. “By the daylight of the gods, it is funny, whatever it is!” And he whisked his tail and laughed, as he said this, drawing nearer to the Ravens.

“Why, we are racing our eyes,” said the older of the two Ravens. “Didn’t you ever see anyone race his eyes before?”

“Good demons, no!” exclaimed the Coyote. “Race your eyes! How in the world do you race your eyes?”

“Why, this way,” said one of the Ravens. And he settled himself down. “Do you see that tall rock yonder? Ahem! Well, tall rock, yonder,--ye my eyes go round it and return to me!” _K’othlo! k’othlo!_ the eyes slipped out of their sockets, and the Raven, holding his head perfectly still, waited, with his upper lids hanging wrinkled on his lower, for the return of the eyes; and as they neared him, he crouched down, swelled up his neck, and exclaimed “_Whu-u-u-u-u-u-u_.” _Tsoko!_ the eyes flew into their sockets again. Then the Raven turned around and showed his two black bright eyes as good as ever. “There, now! what did I tell you?”

“By the moon!” squeaked the Coyote, and came up nearer still. “How in the world do you do that? It is one of the most wonderful and funny things I ever saw!”

“Well, here, come up close to me,” said the Raven, “and I will show you how it is done.” Then the other Raven settled himself down; and _pop!_ went his eyes out of their sockets, round a rock still farther away. And as they returned, he exclaimed “_Whu-u-u-u-u-u-u_,” when _tsoko!_ in again they came. And he turned around laughing at the Coyote. “There, now!” said he, “didn’t I tell you?”

“By the daylight of the gods! I wish I could do that,” said the Coyote. “Suppose I try my eyes?”

“Why, yes, if you like, to be sure!” said the Ravens. “Well, now, do you want to try?”

“Humph! I should say I did,” replied the Coyote.

“Well, then, settle down right here on this rock,” said the Ravens, making way for him, “and hold your head out toward that rock and say: ‘Yonder rock, these my eyes go round it and return to me.’”

“I know! I know! I know!” yelled the Coyote. And he settled himself down, and squeezed and groaned to force his eyes out of his sockets, but they would not go. “Goodness!” said the Coyote, “how can I get my eyes to go out of their sockets?”

“Why, don’t you know how?” said the Ravens. “Well, just keep still, and we’ll help you; we’ll take them out for you.”

“All right! all right!” cried the Coyote, unable to repress his impatience. “Quick! quick! here I am, all ready!” And crouching down, he laid his tail straight out, swelled up his neck, and strained with every muscle to force his eyes out of his head. The Ravens picked them out with a dexterous twist of their beaks in no time, and sent them flying off over the valley. The Coyote yelped a little when they came out, but stood his ground manfully, and cringed down his neck and waited for his eyes to come back.

“Let the fool of a beast go without his eyes,” said the Ravens. “He was so very anxious to get rid of them, and do something he had no business with; let him go without them!” Whereupon they flew off across the valley, and caught up his eyes and ate them, and flew on, laughing at the predicament in which they had left the Coyote.

Now, thus the Coyote sat there the proper length of time; then he opened his mouth, and said “_Whu-u-u-u-u-u-u!_” But he waited in vain for his eyes to come back. And “_Whu-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u!_” he said again. No use. “Mercy!” exclaimed he, “what can have become of my eyes? Why don’t they come back?” After he had waited and “_whu-u-u-u-u-d_” until he was tired, he concluded that his eyes had got lost, and laid his head on his breast, wofully thinking of his misfortune. “How in the world shall I hunt up my eyes?” he groaned, as he lifted himself cautiously (for it must be remembered that he stood on a narrow rock), and tried to look all around; but he couldn’t see. Then he began to feel with his paws, one after another, to find the way down; and he slipped and fell, so that nearly all the breath was knocked out of his body. When he had recovered, he picked himself up, and felt and felt along, slowly descending, until he got into the valley.

Now, it happened as he felt his way along with his toes that he came to a wet place in the valley, not far below where the spring of Shuntakaiya flows out from the cliffs above. In feeling his way, his foot happened to strike a yellow cranberry, ripe and soft, but very cold, of course. “Ha!” said he, “lucky fellow, I! Here is one of my eyes.” So he picked it up and clapped it into one of his empty sockets; then he peered up to the sky, and the light struck through it. “Didn’t I tell you so, old fellow? It is one of your eyes, by the souls of your ancestors!” Then he felt around until he found another cranberry. “Ha!” said he, “and this proves it! Here is the other!” And he clapped that into the other empty socket. He didn’t seem to see quite as well as he had seen before, but still the cranberries answered the purpose of eyes exceedingly well, and the poor wretch of a Coyote never knew the difference; only it was observed when he returned to his companions in the Cañon of the Cedars that he had yellow eyes instead of black ones, which everybody knows Coyotes and all other creatures had at first.

* * * * *

Thus it was in the days of the ancients, and hence to this day coyotes have yellow eyes, and are not always quick to see things.

Thus shortens my story.

THE PRAIRIE-DOGS AND THEIR PRIEST, THE BURROWING-OWL

Once, long, long ago, there stood in Prairie-dog Land a large Prairie-dog village. Prairie-dog Land is south of Zuñi, beyond Grease Mountain; and in the middle of that country, which is one of our smaller meadows, stands a mountain, which is a little mound. All round about the base of this mountain were the sky-holes and door-mounds and pathways of the grandfathers of the Prairie-dogs. In the very top of the mount was the house of an old Burrowing-owl and his wife.

One summer it rained and it rained and it rained, so that the fine fields of _mitäliko_ (wild portulaca) were kept constantly fresh, and the Prairie-dogs had unfailing supplies of this, their favorite food. They became fat and happy, and gloried in the rain-storms that had produced such an abundant harvest for them. But still it kept raining, until by-and-by, when they descended to their fields of _mitäliko_, they found their feet were wet, which they did not like any more than Prairie-dogs like it today.

Now, you know that in some parts of the meadow of Prairie-dog Land are little hollows, in which the water collects when it rains hard. Just in these places were the fields of _mitäliko_. And still it rained and rained, until finally only the tops of the plants appeared above the waters.

Then the Prairie-dogs began to curse the rain and to fall off in flesh, for they could no longer go to the fields to collect food, and the stores in their granaries were running low. At last they grew very hungry and lean and could hardly get about, for it rained and rained day after day, so that they dare not go away from their holes, and their stores were all gone.

The old ones among the Prairie-dogs, the grandfathers, called a great council; three or four of them came out of their houses, stood up on the mounds in front of their sky-holes, and called out “_Wek wek,--wek wek,--wek wek,--wek wek!_” in shrill, squeaky voices, so that the women and children in the holes round about exclaimed: “Goodness, gracious! the old ones are calling a council!” And everybody trooped to the council, which was gathered round the base of the Burrowing-owl’s mountain.

“Now,” said the chief spokesman or counsellor, “you see those wretched rainers keep dropping water until our fields of _mitäliko_ are flooded. They ought to know that we are short of leg, and that we can’t go into the lakes to gather food, and here we are starving. Our women are dying, our children are crying, and we can scarcely go from door to door. Now, what is to be done? How can we stop the rain?--that is the question.”

They talked and talked; they devised many plans, which were considered futile, most of them having been tried already. At last a wise old gray-cheeked fellow suggested that it would be well to apply to their grandfather, the Burrowing-owl, who lived in the top of the mountain.

“Hear! hear!” cried the council in one voice,--whereupon the old man who had spoken was chosen as messenger to the Burrowing-owl.

He climbed to the top of the mountain, with many a rest, and at last got near the doorway, and sitting down at a respectful distance, raised himself on his haunches, folded his hands across his breast, then cried out: “_Wek wek,--wek wek!_”

The old grandfather Burrowing-owl, not in very good humor, stepped out, blinking his eyes and asked what was the matter. He said: “It isn’t your custom to come up to my house and make such a racket, though true enough it is that I hear your rackets down below. It cannot be for nothing that you come; therefore, what is your message?”

“My grandfather,” said the Prairie-dog, “in council we have considered how to stop the irrepressible rainers; but all of our efforts and devices are quite futile, so that we are forced to apply to you.”

“Ah, indeed,” said the old Owl, scratching the corner of his eye with his claw. “Go down home, and I will see what I can do tomorrow morning. As you all know very well, I am a priest. I will set aside four days for fasting and meditation and sacred labors. Please await the result.”

The old Prairie-dog humbly bade him farewell and departed for his village below.

Next morning the Burrowing-owl said to his wife: “Put on a large quantity of beans, my old one, and cook them well,--small beans, of the kind that smell not pleasantly.” He then bade her “Good morning,” and left. He went about for a long time, hunting at the roots of bushes. At last he found one of those ill-smelling Beetles, with its head stuck way down in the midst of the roots. He grabbed him up, notwithstanding the poor creature’s remonstrances, and took him home.

When he arrived there, said he: “My friend, it seems to me you are making a great fuss about this thing, but I am not going to hurt you, except in one way,--by the presentation to you of all the food you can eat.”

“Bless me!” said the Tip-beetle, bobbing his head down into the ground and rearing himself into the air. Then he sat down quite relieved and contented.

“Old woman,” said the Burrowing-owl, “lay out a dish of the beans on the floor.” The wife complied. “My friend,” said the Burrowing-owl to the Tip-beetle, “fall to and satisfy yourself.”

The Tip-beetle, with another tip, sat down before the bowl of beans. He ate, and swallowed, and gulped until he had entirely emptied the dish, and began to grow rather full of girth.

“Not yet satisfied?” asked the Owl. “Old woman, lay out another bowl.”

Another large bowl of the bean soup was placed before the Tip-beetle, who likewise gulped and gulped at this, and at last diminished it to nothing. Now, the Tip-beetle by this time looked like a well-blown-up paunch. Still, when the old Owl remarked “Is there left of your capacity?” he replied: “Somewhat; by the favor of a little more, I think I shall be satisfied.”

“Old woman,” said the Owl, “a little more.”

The old woman placed another bowl before the Tip-beetle; and he ate and ate, and swallowed and swallowed, and gulped and sputtered; but with all the standing up and wiggling of his head that he could do he could not finish the bowl; and at last, wiping the perspiration from his brow, he exclaimed: “Thanks, thanks, I am satisfied.”

“Ha, indeed!” said the Owl. Both the old woman and the Tip-beetle had noticed, while the feast was going on, that the Owl had cut out a good-sized round piece of buckskin, and he was running a thread round about the edge of it, leaving two strings at either side, like the strings with which one draws together a pouch. Just as the Tip-beetle returned his thanks the old Owl had finished his work.

“My friend,” said he, turning to the Tip-beetle, “you have feasted to satisfaction, and it appears to me by your motions that you are exceedingly uncomfortable, being larger of girth than is safe and well for a Tip-beetle. Perhaps you are not aware that one who eats freely of bean soup is likely to grow still larger. I would advise you, therefore, when I lay this pouch on the floor, with the mouth of it toward you, to run your head into it and exhale as much wind as possible; and to facilitate this I will squeeze you slightly.”

The Tip-beetle was not very well pleased with the proposition; still he by no means refused to comply.

“You see,” continued the Owl, “you are at once to be relieved of the serious consequences of your gluttony, while at the same time paying for your food.”

“Now, this is an excellent idea, upon my word,” replied the Tip-beetle, and forthwith he thrust himself into the bag. The old Owl embraced the Tip-beetle and gently squeezed him, increasing the pressure as time went on, until a large amount of his girth had been diminished; but behold! the girth of the bag was swelled until it was so full with struggling wind that it could hardly be tied up! Outside, the rain was rattling, rattling.

Said the old Owl to the Tip-beetle: “My friend, if you do not mind the rain, which I dare say you do not, you may now return to your home. Many thanks for your assistance.”

The Tip-beetle, likewise with expression of thanks, took his departure.

When the morning of the fourth day came, and the rain still continued, in fact increased, the old Owl took the bag of wind out to the mount before his doorway.

Now, you know that if one goes near a Tip-beetle and disturbs him, that Tip-beetle will rear himself on his hands and head and disgorge breath of so pungent a nature that nobody can withstand it. Woe to the nose of that man who is in the neighborhood! It will be so seared with this over-powering odor that it cannot sneeze, though desiring never so much to do so. You know, also, if you touch a Tip-beetle who is angry, all the good water in Zuñi River will not remove from your fingers the memory of that Beetle, whenever you chance to smell of them. And you know, also, how small stewed beans with thick skins affect one. Conceive, then, the power of the medicine contained in that little bag.