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.
The old Owl, taking up a stick, hit the bag one whack. The clouds,
before so thick, glaring with lightning, trembling and swirling with
thunder, now began to thin out in the zenith and depart, and the
sunlight sifted through. The Owl hit the bag another stroke,--behold,
afar off scudded the clouds as before a fierce blast. Again the old Owl
hit the bag. The clouds were resting on the far away mountain-tops
before he had lowered his stick. Then, with one mighty effort, he gave
the bag a final whack, wholly emptying it of its contents, and the sky
was as clear as it is on a summer’s day in the noon-time of a drought.
So potent was this all-penetrating and irresistible odor, that even the
Rain-gods themselves could not withstand it, and withdrew their forces
and retired before it.
Out from their holes trooped the Prairie-dogs, and sitting up on their
haunches all round about the mountain, they shouted at the tops of their
shrill voices, “_Wek wek,--wek wek,--wek wek!_” in praise of their great
priest, the Grandfather Burrowing-owl.
* * * * *
Behold, thus it was in the days of the ancients. And for that reason
prairie-dogs and burrowing-owls have always been great friends. And the
burrowing-owls consider no place in the world quite so appropriate for
the bringing forth, hatching, and rearing of their children as the holes
of the prairie-dogs.
Thus shortens my story.
[Illustration: ACROSS THE TERRACES OF ZUÑI
Photo by A. C. Vroman]
HOW THE GOPHER RACED WITH THE RUNNERS OF K’IÁKIME
There was a time in the days of the ancients when the runners of
K’iákime were famed above those of all other cities in the Valley of
Shíwina for their strength, endurance, and swiftness of foot. In running
the _tikwa_, or kicked-stick race, they overcame, one after another, the
runners of Shíwina or Zuñi, of Mátsaki or the Salt City, of Pínawa or
the Town of the Winds, and in fact all who dared to challenge them or to
accept their challenges.
The people of Shíwina and Mátsaki did not give up easily. They ran again
and again, only to be beaten and to lose the vast piles of goods and
precious things which they had staked or bet; and at last they were
wholly disheartened and bereft of everything which without shame a man
might exhibit for betting.
So the people of the two towns called a council, and the old men and
runners gathered and discussed what could be done that the runners of
K’iákime might be overcome. They thought of all the wise men and wise
beings they knew of; one after another of them was mentioned, and at
last a few prevailed in contending that for both wisdom and cunning or
craft the Gopher took precedence over all those who had been mentioned.
Forthwith a young man was dispatched to find an old Gopher who lived on
the side of the hill near which the race-course began.
He was out sunning himself, and finishing a cellar, when the young man
approached him, and he called out: “Ha, grandson! Don’t bother me this
morning; I am busy digging my cellars.”
The young man insisted that he came with an important message from his
people. So the old Gopher ceased his work, and listened attentively
while the young man related to him the difficulties they were in.
Said he: “Go back, my grandson, and tell your people to challenge the
runners of K’iákime to run the race of the kicked stick with a runner
whom they have chosen, a single one, the fourth day from this day; and
tell your people, moreover, that I will run the race for them, providing
only that the runners of K’iákime will permit me to go my own way, on my
own road, which as you know runs underground.”
The youth thanked the old Gopher and was about to retire when the
fat-sided, heavy-cheeked old fellow called to him to hold on a little.
“Mind you,” said he. “Tell your people also that they shall bet for me
only two things--red paint and sacred yellow pollen. These shall, as it
were, be the payment for my exertions, if I win, as I prize this sort of
possession above all else.”
The young man returned and reported what the Gopher had said. Thereupon
the people of Shíwina and Mátsaki sent a challenge to the people of
K’iákime for a race, saying: “We bet all that we have against what you
have won from us from time to time that our runner, the Gopher, who
lives beside the beginning of our race-course, will beat you in the
race, which we propose shall be the fourth day from this day. The only
condition we name is, that the Gopher shall be permitted to run in his
own way, on his own road, which is underground.”
Right glad were the runners of K’iákime to run against anyone proposed
by those whom they had so often beaten. They hesitated not a moment in
replying that they would run against the Gopher or any other friend of
the people of Mátsaki and Shíwina, stipulating only that the Gopher, if
he ran underground, should appear at the surface occasionally, that they
might know where he was. So it was arranged, and the acceptance of the
challenge was reported to the Gopher, and the stipulation also which was
named by the runners of K’iákime.
That night the old Gopher went to his younger brother, old like himself,
heavy-cheeked, gray-and-brown-coated, and dusty with diggings of his
cellars. “My younger brother,” said the old Gopher, “the fourth day from
this day I am to run a race. I shall start at the beginning of the
race-course of the people of K’iákime over here, which is near my home,
as you know. There I shall dig two holes; one at the beginning of the
race-course, the other a little farther on. Now, here at your home, near
the Place of the Scratching Bushes, do you dig a hole, down below where
the race-course passes your place, off to one side of it, and another
hole a little beyond the first. The means by which I shall be
distinguished as a racer will be a red plume tied to my head. Do you
also procure a red plume and tie it to your head. When you hear the
thundering of the feet of the racers, run out and show yourself for a
minute, and rush into the other hole as fast as you can.”
“I understand what you would have of me, and right gladly will I do it.
It would please me exceedingly to take down the pride of those haughty
runners of K’iákime, or at least to help in doing it,” replied the
younger brother.
The old Gopher went on to the Sitting Space of the Red Shell, where
dwelt another of his younger brothers precisely like himself and the one
he had already spoken to, near whose home the race-course also ran. To
him he communicated the same information, and gave the same directions.
Then he went on still farther to the place called K’ópak’yan, where
dwelt another of his younger brothers. To him also he gave the same
directions; and to still another younger brother, who dwelt beneath the
base of the two broad pillars of Thunder Mountain, at the last
turning-point of the race-course; and to another brother, who dwelt at
the Place of the Burnt Log; and lastly to another brother quite as
cunning and inventive as himself, who dwelt just below K’iákime where
the race-course turned toward its end. When all these arrangements had
been made, the old Gopher went back and settled himself comfortably in
his nest.
Bright and early on the fourth day preparations were made for the race.
The runners of K’iákime had been fasting and training in the sacred
houses, and they came forth stripped and begirt for the racing, carrying
their stick. Then came the people of Mátsaki and Shíwina, who gathered
on the plain, and there they waited. But they waited not long, for soon
the old Gopher appeared close in their midst, popping out of the ground,
and on his head was a little red plume. He placed the stick which had
been prepared for him, on the ground, where he could grab it with his
teeth easily, saying: “Of course, you will excuse me if I do not kick my
stick, since my feet are so short that I could not do so. On the other
hand,” he said to the runners, “you do not have to dig your way as I do.
Therefore, we are evenly matched.”
The runners of K’iákime, contemptuously laughing, asked him why he did
not ask for some privilege instead of talking about things which meant
nothing to them.
At last the word was given. With a yell and a spring, off dashed the
racers of K’iákime, gaily kicking their stick before them. Grabbing his
stick in his teeth, into the ground plunged the old Gopher. Fearful lest
their runner should be beaten, the people of Shíwina and Mátsaki ran to
a neighboring hill, watching breathlessly for him to appear somewhere in
the course of the race above the plain. Away over the plain in a cloud
of dust swept the runners of K’iákime. They were already far off, when
suddenly, some distance before them, out of the ground in the midst of
the race-course, popped the old Gopher, to all appearance, the red plume
dusty, but waving proudly on his forehead. After looking round at the
runners, into the ground he plunged again. The people of Shíwina and
Mátsaki yelled their applause. The runners of K’iákime, astounded that
the Gopher should be ahead of them, redoubled their efforts. When they
came near the Place of the Red Shell, behold! somewhat muddy round the
eyes and nose, out popped the old Gopher again, to all appearance. Of
course it was his brother, the red plume somewhat heavy with dirt, but
still waving on his forehead.
On rushed the runners, and they had no sooner neared K’ópak’yan than
again they saw the Gopher in advance of them, now apparently covered
with sweat,--for this cunning brother had provided himself with a little
water which he rubbed over his fur and made it all muddy, as though he
were perspiring and had already begun to grow tired. He came out of his
hole and popped into the other less quickly than the others had done;
and the runners, who were not far behind him, raised a great shout and
pushed ahead. When they thought they had gained on him, behold! in their
pathway, all bedraggled with mud, apparently the same old Gopher
appeared, moving with some difficulty, and then disappeared under the
ground again. And so on, the runners kept seeing the Gopher at
intervals, each time a little worse off than before, until they came to
the last turning-place; and just as they reached it, almost in their
midst appeared the most bedraggled and worn out of all the Gophers.
They, seeing the red plume on his crest, almost obscured by mud and all
flattened out, regarded him as surely the same old Gopher.
Finally, the original old Gopher, who had been quietly sleeping
meanwhile, roused himself, and besoaking himself from the tip of his
nose to the end of his short tail, wallowed about in the dirt until he
was well plastered with mud, half closing his eyes, and crawled out
before the astonished multitude at the end of the goal, a sorry-looking
object indeed, far ahead of the runners, who were rapidly approaching. A
great shout was raised by those who were present, and the runners of
K’iákime for the first time lost all of their winnings, and had the
swiftness, or at least all their confidence, taken out of them, as doth
the wind lose its swiftness when its legs are broken.
* * * * *
Thus it was in the days of the ancients. By the skill and cunning of the
Gopher--who, by digging his many holes and pitfalls, is the opponent of
all runners, great and small--was the race won against the swiftest
runners among the youth of our ancients. Therefore, to this day the
young runners of Zuñi, on going forth to prepare for a race, take with
them the sacred yellow pollen and red paint; and they make for the
gophers, round about the race-course in the country, beautiful little
plumes, and they speak to them speeches in prayer, saying: “Behold, O ye
Gophers of the plains and the trails, we race! And that we may have thy
aid, we give ye these things, which are unto ye and your kind most
precious, that ye will cause to fall into your holes and crannies and be
hidden away in the dark and the dirt the sticks that are kicked by our
opponents.”
Thus shortens my story.
HOW THE RATTLESNAKES CAME TO BE WHAT THEY ARE
Know you that long, long ago there lived at Yathlpew’nan, as live there
now, many Rattlesnakes; but then they were men and women, only of a
Rattlesnake kind.
One day the little children of one of the houses there wished to go out
to play at sliding down the sand-banks south of the Bitter Pond on the
other side of our river. So they cried out to their parents: “Let us go,
O mother, grandmother, father! and take our little sister to play on the
sunny side of the sand-banks.”
“My children,” said the mother, “go if you wish, but be very careful of
your little sister; for she is young. Carry her gently on your
shoulders, and place her where she will be safe, for she is very small
and helpless.”
“Oh, yes!” cried the children. “We love our little sister, don’t we,
little one?” said they, turning to the baby girl. Then they took her up
in their mantles, and carried her on their shoulders out to the sunny
side of the sand-banks; and there they began to play at sliding one
after another.
The little girl, immensely delighted with their sport, toddled out from
the place where they had set her down, just as one of the girls was
speeding down the side of the sand-hill. The little creature ran,
clapping her hands and laughing, to catch her sister as she came; and
the elder one, trying in vain to stop herself, called out to her to
beware; but she was a little thing, and knew not the meaning of her
sister’s warning; and, alas! the elder one slid down upon her, knocked
her over and rolled her in the sand, crushing her so that she died, and
rolling her out very small.
The children all gathered around their little sister, and cried and
cried. Finally they took her up tenderly, and, placing her on their
shoulders, sang as they went slowly toward home:
“_Tchi-tola tsaaana!
Tchi-tola tsaaana!
Tchi-tola tsaaana!_
_Ama ma hama seta!
Ama ma hama seta!_”
Rattlesnake little-little!
Rattlesnake little-little!
Rattlesnake little-little!
Alas, we bear her!
Alas, we bear her!
As they approached the village of the Rattlesnakes, the mother of the
little one looked out and saw them coming and heard their song.
“O, my children! my children!” she cried. “Ye foolish little ones, did I
not tell ye to beware and to be careful, O, my children?” Then she
exclaimed--rocking herself to and fro, and wriggling from side to side
at the same time, casting her hands into the air, and sobbing wildly--
“_Ayaa mash toki!
Ayaa mash toki!
Hai! i i i i!_”[15]
and fell in a swoon, still wriggling, to the ground.
[15] It is impossible to translate this exclamation, as it is
probably archaic, and it is certainly the intention that its
meaning shall not be plain. Judging from its etymology, I should
think that its meaning might be:
“Oh, alas! our little maiden!
Oh, alas! our little maiden!
Ala-a-a-a-a-s!”
When the old grandmother saw them coming, she too said:
“_Ayaa mash toki!
Ayaa mash toki!
Hai! i i i i!_”
And as one after another in that village saw the little child, so
beloved, brought home thus mutilated and dead, each cried out as the
others had cried:
“_Ayaa mash toki!
Ayaa mash toki!
Hai! i i i i!_”
and all swooned away; and the children also who were bringing the little
one joined in the cry of woe, and swooned away. And when they all
returned to life, behold, they could not arise, but went wriggling along
the ground, faintly crying, as Rattlesnakes wriggle and cry to this day.
So you see that once--as was the case with many, if not all, of the
animals--the Rattlesnakes were a people, and a splendid people too.
Therefore we kill them not needlessly, nor waste the lives even of other
animals without cause.
Thus shortens my story.
HOW THE CORN-PESTS WERE ENSNARED
In the days of the ancients, long, long ago, there lived in our town,
which was then called the Middle Ant Hill of the World, a proud maiden,
very pretty and very attractive, the daughter of one of the richest men
among our people. She had every possession a Zuñi maiden could wish
for,--blankets and mantles, embroidered dresses and sashes, buckskins
and moccasins, turquoise earrings and shell necklaces, bracelets so many
you could not count them. She had her father and mother, brothers and
sisters, all of whom she loved very much. Why, therefore, should she
care for anything else?
There was only one thing to trouble her. Behold! it came of much
possession, for she had large corn-fields, so large and so many that
those who planted and worked them for her could not look after them
properly, and no sooner had the corn ears become full and sweet with the
milk of their being than all sorts of animals broke into those fields
and pulled down the corn-stalks and ate up the sweet ears of corn. Now,
how to remove this difficulty the poor girl did not know.
Yes, now that I think of it, there was another thing that troubled her
very much, fully as much as did the corn-pests,--pests of another kind,
however, for there wasn’t an unmarried young man in all the valley of
our ancients who was not running mad over the charms of this girl.
Besides all that, not a few of them had an eye on so many possessions,
and thought her home wouldn’t be an uncomfortable place to live in. So
they never gave the poor girl any peace, but hung round her house, and
came to visit her father so constantly that at last she determined to
put the two pests together and call them one, and thereby get rid, if
possible, of one or the other. So, when these young men were very
importunate, she would say to them, “Look you! if any one of you will go
to my corn-fields, and destroy or scare away, so that they will never
come back again, the pests that eat up my corn, him I will marry and
cherish, for I shall respect his ability and ingenuity.”
The young men tried and tried, but it was of no use. Before long,
everybody knew of this singular proposition.
There was a young fellow who lived in one of the outer towns, the
poorest of the poor among our people; and not only that, but he was so
ugly that no woman would ever look at him without laughing.
Now, there are two kinds of laugh with women. One of them is a very good
sort of thing, and makes young men feel happy and conceited. The other
kind is somewhat heartier, but makes young men feel depressed and very
humble. It need not be asked which kind was laughed by the women when
they saw this ugly, ragged, miserable-looking young man. He had bright
twinkling eyes, however, and that means more than all else sometimes.
Now, this young man came to hear of what was going on. He had no
present to offer the girl, but he admired her as much as--yes, a good
deal more than--if he had been the handsomest young man of his time. So
just in the way that he was he went to the house of this girl one
evening. He was received politely, and it was noticeable to the old
folks that the girl seemed rather to like him,--just as it is noticeable
to you and me today that what people have they prize less than what they
have not. The girl placed a tray of bread before the young man and bade
him eat; and after he had done, he looked around with his twinkling
little eyes. And the old man said, “Let us smoke together.” And so they
smoked.
By-and-by the old man asked if he were not thinking of something in
coming to the house of a stranger. And the young man replied, it was
very true; he had thoughts, though he felt ashamed to say it, but he
even wished to be accepted as a suitor for his daughter.