crawled out to the end of the branch immediately over the Coyotes, and,
giving them a good fling, dropped them as hard as he could. Over and
over they fell, and then came down like a pair of stones across the
bodies of the Coyotes, crushing the wind out of them, so that they had
no breath left with which to cry out, and most of them were instantly
killed. But the two little cubs at either side escaped with only a hurt
or two, and, after yelling fearfully, one of them took his tail between
his legs and ran away. The other one, still very hungry, ran off with
his tail lowered and his nose to the ground, sidewise, until he had got
to a safe distance, and then he sat down and looked up. Presently he
thought he would return and eat some of the meat from the ribs.
“Wait!” cried the old Turtle, “don’t go near that meat; leave it alone
for your parents and brothers and sisters. Really, I am so old and stiff
that it took me a long time to get out to the end of that limb, and I am
afraid they went to sleep while I was getting there, for see how still
they lie.”
“By my ancestors!” exclaimed the Coyote, looking at them; “that is so.”
“Why don’t you come up here and have a feast with me,” said the Turtle,
“and leave that meat alone for your brothers and sisters and your old
ones?”
“How can I get up there?” whined the Coyote, crawling nearer to the
tree.
“Simply reach up until you get your paw over one of the branches, and
then haul yourself up,” replied the Turtle.
The little Coyote stretched and jumped, and, though he sometimes
succeeded in getting his paw over the branch, he fell back, _flop!_
every time. And then he would yelp and sing out as though every bone in
his body was broken.
“Never mind! never mind!” cried the Turtle. “I’ll come down and help
you.” So he crawled down the tree, and, reaching over, grabbed the
little Coyote by the top-knot, and by much struggling he was able to
climb up. When they got to the top of the tree the Turtle said: “There,
now, help yourself.”
The little Coyote fell to and filled himself so full that he was as
round as a plum and elastic as a cranberry. Then he looked about and
licked his chops and tried to breathe, but couldn’t more than half, and
said: “Oh, my! if I don’t get some water I’ll choke!”
“My friend,” said the Turtle, “do you see that drop of water gleaming in
the sun at the end of that branch of this pine tree?” (It was really
pitch.) “Now, I have lived in the tops of trees so much that I know
where to go. Trees have springs. Look at that.”
The Coyote looked and was convinced.
“Walk out, now, to the end of the branch, or until you come to one of
those drops of water, then take it in your mouth and suck, and all the
water you want will flow out.”
The little Coyote started. He trembled and was unsteady on his legs, but
managed to get half way. “Is it here?” he called, turning round and
looking back.
“No, a little farther,” said the Turtle.
So he cautiously stepped a little farther. The branch was swaying
dreadfully. He turned his head, and just as he was saying, “Is it here?”
he lost his balance and fell plump to the ground, striking so hard on
the tough earth that he was instantly killed.
“There, you wretched beast!” said the old Turtle with a sigh of relief
and satisfaction. “Ingenuity enabled me to kill a deer. Ingenuity
enabled me to retain the deer.”
It must not be forgotten that one of the little Coyotes ran away. He had
numerous descendants, and ever since that time they have been
characterized by pimples all over their faces where the mustaches grow
out, and little blotches inside of their lips, such as you see inside
the lips of dogs.
Thus shortens my story.
THE COYOTE AND THE LOCUST
In the days of the ancients, there lived south of Zuñi, beyond the
headland of rocks, at a place called Suski-ashokton (“Rock Hollow of the
Coyotes”), an old Coyote. And this side of the headland of rocks, in the
bank of a steep arroyo, lived an old Locust, near where stood a piñon
tree, crooked and so bereft of needles that it was sunny.
One day the Coyote went out hunting, leaving his large family of
children and his old wife at home. It was a fine day and the sun was
shining brightly, and the old Locust crawled out of his home in the loam
of the arroyo and ascended to one of the bare branches of the piñon
tree, where, hooking his feet firmly into the bark, he began to sing and
play his flute. The Coyote in his wanderings came along just as he began
to sing these words:
“_Tchumali, tchumali, shohkoya,
Tchumali, tchumali, shohkoya!
Yaamii heeshoo taatani tchupatchinte,
Shohkoya,
Shohkoya!_”
Locust, locust, playing a flute,
Locust, locust, playing a flute!
Away up above on the pine-tree bough, closely clinging,
Playing a flute,
Playing a flute!
“Delight of my senses!” called out the Coyote, squatting down on his
haunches, and looking up, with his ears pricked and his mouth grinning;
“Delight of my senses, how finely you play your flute!”
“Do you think so?” said the Locust, continuing his song.
“Goodness, yes!” cried the Coyote, shifting nearer. “What a song it is!
Pray, teach it to me, so that I can take it home and dance my children
to it. I have a large family at home.”
“All right,” said the Locust. “Listen, then.” And he sang his song
again:
“_Tchumali, tchumali, shohkoya,
Tchumali, tchumali, shohkoya!
Yaamii heeshoo taatani tchupatchinte,
Shohkoya,
Shohkoya!_”
“Delightful!” cried the Coyote. “Now, shall I try?”
“Yes, try.”
Then in a very hoarse voice the Coyote half growled and half sang
(making a mistake here and there, to be sure) what the Locust had sung,
though there was very little music in his repetition of the performance.
“_Tchu u-mali, tchumali--shohshoh koya,
Tchu tchu mali, tchumali shohkoya,
Yaa mami he he shoo ta ta tante tchup patchin te,
Shohkoya,
Shohkoya!_”
“Ha!” laughed he, as he finished; “I have got it, haven’t I?”
“Well, yes,” said the Locust, “fairly well.”
“Now, then, let us sing it over together.”
And while the Locust piped shrilly the Coyote sang gruffly, though much
better than at first, the song.
“There, now,” exclaimed he, with a whisk of his tail; “didn’t I tell
you?” and without waiting to say another word he whisked away toward his
home beyond the headland of rocks. As he was running along the plain he
kept repeating the song to himself, so that he would not forget it,
casting his eyes into the air, after the manner of men in trying to
remember or to say particularly fine things, so that he did not notice
an old Gopher peering at him somewhat ahead on the trail; and the old
Gopher laid a trap for him in his hole.
The Coyote came trotting along, singing: “_Shohkoya, shohkoya_,” when
suddenly he tumbled heels over head into the Gopher’s hole. He sneezed,
began to cough, and to rub the sand out of his eyes; and then jumping
out, cursed the Gopher heartily, and tried to recall his song, but found
that he had utterly forgotten it, so startled had he been.
“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.”