Chapter IX: Part 9

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.

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.

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.

The father referred the matter to the girl, and she said she would be very well satisfied; then she took the young man aside and spoke a few words to him,--in fact, told him what were the conditions of his becoming her accepted husband. He smiled, and said he would certainly try to the best of his ability, but this was a very hard thing she asked.

“I know it is,” said the girl; “that is why I ask it.”

Now, the young man left the house forthwith. The next day he very quietly went down into the corn-fields belonging to the girl, and over toward the northern mesa, for that is where her corn-fields were--lucky being! He dug a great deep pit with a sharp stick and a bone shovel. Now, when he had dug it--very smooth at the sides and top it was--he went to the mountain and got some poles, placing them across the hole, and over these poles he spread earth, and set up corn-stalks just as though no hole had been dug there; then he put some exceedingly tempting bait, plenty of it, over the center of these poles, which were so weak that nobody, however light of foot, could walk over them without breaking through.

Night came on, and you could hear the Coyotes begin to sing; and the whole army of pests--Bears, Badgers, Gophers, all sorts of creatures, as they came down slowly, each one in his own way, from the mountain. The Coyotes first came into the field, being swift of foot; and one of them, nosing around and keeping a sharp lookout for watchers, happened to espy those wonderfully tempting morsels that lay over the hole.

“Ha!” said he (Coyotes don’t think much what they are doing), and he gave a leap, when in he went--sticks, dirt, bait, and all--to the bottom of the hole. He picked himself up and rubbed the sand out of his eyes, then began to jump and jump, trying to get out; but it was of no use, and he set up a most doleful howl.

He had just stopped for breath, when a Bear came along. “What in the name of all the devils and witches are you howling so for?” said he. “Where are you?”

The Coyote swallowed his whimpers immediately, set himself up in a careless attitude, and cried out: “Broadfoot, lucky, lucky, lucky fellow! Did you hear me singing? I am the happiest creature on the face of the earth, or rather under it.”

“What about? I shouldn’t think you were happy, to judge from your howling.”

“Why! Mercy on me!” cried the Coyote, “I was singing for joy.”

“How’s that?” asked the Bear.

“Why,” said the Coyote, “I came along here this evening and by the merest accident fell into this hole. And what do you suppose I found down here? Green-corn, meat, sweet-stuff, and everything a corn-eater could wish for. The only thing I lacked to complete my happiness was someone to enjoy the meal with me. Jump in!--it isn’t very deep--and fall to, friend. We’ll have a jolly good night of it.”

So the old Bear looked down, drew back a minute, hesitated, and then jumped in. When the Bear got down there, the Coyote laid himself back, slapped his thighs, and laughed and laughed and laughed. “Now, get out if you can,” said he to the Bear. “You and I are in a pretty mess. I fell in here by accident, it is true, but I would give my teeth and eyes if I could get out again!”

The Bear came very near eating him up, but the Coyote whispered something in his ear. “Good!” yelled the Bear. “Ha! ha! ha! Excellent idea! Let us sing together. Let them come!”

So they laughed and sang and feasted until they attracted almost every corn-pest in the fields to the spot to see what they were doing. “Keep away, my friends,” cried out the Coyote. “No such luck for you. We got here first. Our spoils!”

“Can’t I come?” “Can’t I come?” cried out one after another.

“Well, yes,--no,--there may not be enough for you all.” “Come on, though; come on! who cares?”--cried out the old Bear. And they rushed in so fast that very soon the pit-hole was almost full of them, scrambling to get ahead of one another, and before they knew their predicament they were already in it. The Coyote laughed, shuffled around, and screamed at the top of his voice; he climbed up over his grandfather the Bear, scrambled through the others, which were snarling and biting each other, and, knowing what he was about, skipped over their backs, out of the hole, and ran away laughing as hard as he could.

Now, the next morning down to the corn-field came the young man. Drawing near to the pit he heard a tremendous racket, and going to the edge and peering in he saw that it was half filled with the pests which had been destroying the corn of the maiden,--every kind of creature that had ever meddled with the corn-fields of man, there they were in that deep pit; some of them all tired out, waiting for “the end of their daylight,” others still jumping and crawling and falling in their efforts to get out.

“Good! good! my friends,” cried the young man. “You must be cold; I’ll warm you up a little.” So he gathered a quantity of dry wood and threw it into the pit. “Be patient! be patient!” said he. “I hope I don’t hurt any of you. It will be all over in a few minutes.” Then he lighted the wood and burned the rascals all up. But he noticed the Coyote was not there. “What does it matter?” said he. “One kind of pest a man can fight, but not many.”

So he went back to the house of the girl and reported to her what he had done. She was so pleased she hardly knew how to express her gratitude, but said to the young man with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye, “Are you quite sure they were all there?”

“Why, they were all there except the Coyote,” said the young man; “but I must tell you the truth, and somehow he got out or didn’t get in.”

“Who cares for a Coyote!” said the girl. “I would much rather marry a man with some ingenuity about him than have all the Coyotes in the world to kill.” Whereupon she accepted this very ugly but ingenious young man; and it is notable that ever since then pretty girls care very little how their husbands look, being pretty enough themselves for both. But they like to have them able to think and guess at a way of getting along occasionally. Furthermore, what does a rich girl care for a rich young man? Ever since then, even to this day, as you know, rich girls almost invariably pick out poor young men for their husbands, and rich young men are sure to take a fancy to poor girls.

Thus it was in the days of the ancients. The Coyote got out of the trap that was set for him by the ugly young man. That is the reason why coyotes are so much more abundant than any other corn-pests in the land of Zuñi, and do what you will, they are sure to get away with some of your corn, anyhow.

Thus shortens my story.

JACK-RABBIT AND COTTONTAIL

Anciently the Jack-rabbit lived in a sage plain, and the Cottontail rabbit lived in a cliff hard by. They saw the clouds gather, so they went out to sing. The long-legged Jack-rabbit sang for snow, thus:

“_U pi na wi sho, U pi na wi sho,
U kuk uku u kuk!_”

But the short-legged Cottontail sang for rain, like this:

“_Hatchi ethla ho na an saia._”

That’s what they sung--one asking for snow, the other for rain; hence to this day the Pók’ia (Jack-rabbit) runs when it snows, the Â′kshiko (Cottontail) when it rains.

Thus shortens my story.

THE RABBIT HUNTRESS AND HER ADVENTURES

It was long ago, in the days of the ancients, that a poor maiden lived at K’yawana Tehua-tsana (“Little Gateway of Zuñi River”). You know there are black stone walls of houses standing there on the tops of the cliffs of lava, above the narrow place through which the river runs, to this day.

In one of these houses there lived this poor maiden alone with her feeble old father and her aged mother. She was unmarried, and her brothers had all been killed in wars, or had died gently; so the family lived there helplessly, so far as many things were concerned, from the lack of men in their house.

It is true that in making the gardens--the little plantings of beans, pumpkins, squashes, melons, and corn--the maiden was able to do very well; and thus mainly on the products of these things the family were supported. But, as in those days of our ancients we had neither sheep nor cattle, the hunt was depended upon to supply the meat; or sometimes it was procured by barter of the products of the fields to those who hunted mostly. Of these things this little family had barely enough for their own subsistence; hence, they could not procure their supplies of meat in this way.

Long before, it had been a great house, for many were the brave and strong young men who had lived in it; but the rooms were now empty, or at best contained only the leavings of those who had lived there, much used and worn out.

One autumn day, near winter-time, snow fell, and it became very cold. The maiden had gathered brush and firewood in abundance, and it was piled along the roof of the house and down underneath the ladder which descended from the top. She saw the young men issue forth the next morning in great numbers, their feet protected by long stockings of deerskin, the fur turned inward, and they carried on their shoulders and stuck in their belts stone axes and rabbit-sticks. As she gazed at them from the roof, she said to herself: “O that I were a man and could go forth, as do these young men, hunting rabbits! Then my poor old mother and father would not lack for flesh with which to duly season their food and nourish their lean bodies.” Thus ran her thoughts, and before night, as she saw these same young men coming in, one after another, some of them bringing long strings of rabbits, others short ones, but none of them empty-handed, she decided that, woman though she was, she would set forth on the morrow to try what luck she might find in the killing of rabbits herself.

It may seem strange that, although this maiden was beautiful and young, the youths did not give her some of their rabbits. But their feelings were not friendly, for no one of them would she accept as a husband, although one after another of them had offered himself for marriage.

Fully resolved, the girl that evening sat down by the fireplace, and turning toward her aged parents, said: “O my mother and father, I see that the snow has fallen, whereby easily rabbits are tracked, and the young men who went out this morning returned long before evening heavily laden with strings of this game. Behold, in the other rooms of our house are many rabbit-sticks, and there hang on the walls stone axes, and with these I might perchance strike down a rabbit on his trail, or, if he run into a log, split the log and dig him out. So I have thought during the day, and have decided to go tomorrow and try my fortunes in the hunt, woman though I be.”

“_Naiya_, my daughter,” quavered the feeble old mother; “you would surely be very cold, or you would lose your way, or grow so tired that you could not return before night, and you must not go out to hunt rabbits, woman as you are.”

“Why, certainly not,” insisted the old man, rubbing his lean knees and shaking his head over the days that were gone. “No, no; let us live in poverty rather than that you should run such risks as these, O my daughter.”

But, say what they would, the girl was determined. And the old man said at last: “Very well! You will not be turned from your course. Therefore, O daughter, I will help you as best I may.” He hobbled into another room, and found there some old deerskins covered thickly with fur; and drawing them out, he moistened and carefully softened them, and cut out for the maiden long stockings, which he sewed up with sinew and the fiber of the yucca leaf. Then he selected for her from among the old possessions of his brothers and sons, who had been killed or perished otherwise, a number of rabbit-sticks and a fine, heavy stone axe. Meanwhile, the old woman busied herself in preparing a lunch for the girl, which was composed of little cakes of corn-meal, spiced with pepper and wild onions, pierced through the middle, and baked in the ashes. When she had made a long string of these by threading them like beads on a rope of yucca fiber, she laid them down not far from the ladder on a little bench, with the rabbit-sticks, the stone axe, and the deerskin stockings.

That night the maiden planned and planned, and early on the following morning, even before the young men had gone out from the town, she had put on a warm, short-skirted dress, knotted a mantle over her shoulder and thrown another and larger one over her back, drawn on the deerskin stockings, had thrown the string of corn-cakes over her shoulder, stuck the rabbit-sticks in her belt, and carrying the stone axe in her hand sallied forth eastward through the Gateway of Zuñi and into the plain of the valley beyond, called the Plain of the Burnt River, on account of the black, roasted-looking rocks along some parts of its sides. Dazzlingly white the snow stretched out before her,--not deep, but unbroken,--and when she came near the cliffs with many little cañons in them, along the northern side of the valley, she saw many a trail of rabbits running out and in among the rocks and between the bushes.

Warm and excited by her unwonted exercise, she did not heed a coming snow-storm, but ran about from one place to another, following the trails of the rabbits, sometimes up into the cañons, where the forests of piñon and cedar stood, and where here and there she had the good fortune sometimes to run two, three, or four rabbits into a single hollow log. It was little work to split these logs, for they were small, as you know, and to dig out the rabbits and slay them by a blow of the hand on the nape of the neck, back of the ears; and as she killed each rabbit she raised it reverently to her lips, and breathed from its nostrils its expiring breath, and, tying its legs together, placed it on the string, which after a while began to grow heavy on her shoulders. Still she kept on, little heeding the snow which was falling fast; nor did she notice that it was growing darker and darker, so intent was she on the hunt, and so glad was she to capture so many rabbits. Indeed, she followed the trails until they were no longer visible, as the snow fell all around her, thinking all the while: “How happy will be my poor old father and mother that they shall now have flesh to eat! How strong will they grow! And when this meat is gone, that which is dried and preserved of it also, lo! another snow-storm will no doubt come, and I can go out hunting again.”

At last the twilight came, and, looking around, she found that the snow had fallen deeply, there was no trail, and that she had lost her way. True, she turned about and started in the direction of her home, as she supposed, walking as fast as she could through the soft, deep snow. Yet she reckoned not rightly, for instead of going eastward along the valley, she went southward across it, and entering the mouth of the Descending Plain of the Pines, she went on and on, thinking she was going homeward, until at last it grew dark and she knew not which way to turn.

“What harm,” thought she, “if I find a sheltered place among the rocks? What harm if I remain all night, and go home in the morning when the snow has ceased falling, and by the light I shall know my way?”

So she turned about to some rocks which appeared, black and dim, a short distance away. Fortunately, among these rocks is the cave which is known as Taiuma’s Cave. This she came to, and peering into that black hole, she saw in it, back some distance, a little glowing light. “Ha, ha!” thought she; “perhaps some rabbit-hunters like myself, belated yesterday, passed the night here and left the fire burning. If so, this is greater good fortune than I could have looked for.” So, lowering the string of rabbits which she carried on her shoulder, and throwing off her mantle, she crawled in, peering well into the darkness, for fear of wild beasts; then, returning, she drew in the string of rabbits and the mantle.

Behold! there was a bed of hot coals buried in the ashes in the very middle of the cave, and piled up on one side were fragments of broken wood. The girl, happy in her good fortune, issued forth and gathered more sticks from the cliff-side, where dead piñons are found in great numbers, and bringing them in little armfuls one after another, she finally succeeded in gathering a store sufficient to keep the fire burning brightly all the night through. Then she drew off her snow-covered stockings of deerskin and the bedraggled mantles, and, building a fire, hung them up to dry and sat down to rest herself. The fire burned up and glowed brightly, so that the whole cave was as light as a room at night when a dance is being celebrated. By-and-by, after her clothing had dried, she spread a mantle on the floor of the cave by the side of the fire, and, sitting down, dressed one of her rabbits and roasted it, and, untying the string of corn-cakes her mother had made for her, feasted on the roasted meat and cakes.

She had just finished her evening meal, and was about to recline and watch the fire for awhile, when she heard away off in the distance a long, low cry of distress--“_Ho-o-o-o thlaia-a!_”

“Ah!” thought the girl, “someone, more belated than myself, is lost; doubtless one of the rabbit-hunters.” She got up, and went nearer to the entrance of the cavern.

“_Ho-o-o-o thlaia-a!_” sounded the cry, nearer this time. She ran out, and, as it was repeated again, she placed her hand to her mouth, and cried, woman though she was, as loudly as possible: “_Li-i thlaia-a!_” (“Here!”)

The cry was repeated near at hand, and presently the maiden, listening first, and then shouting, and listening again, heard the clatter of an enormous rattle. In dismay and terror she threw her hands into the air, and, crouching down, rushed into the cave and retreated to its farthest limits, where she sat shuddering with fear, for she knew that one of the Cannibal Demons of those days, perhaps the renowned Átahsaia of the east, had seen the light of her fire through the cave entrance, with his terrible staring eyes, and assuming it to be a lost wanderer, had cried out, and so led her to guide him to her place of concealment.

On came the Demon, snapping the twigs under his feet and shouting in a hoarse, loud voice: “_Ho lithlsh tâ ime!_” (“Ho, there! So you are in here, are you?”) _Kothl!_ clanged his rattle, while, almost fainting with terror, closer to the rock crouched the maiden.

The old Demon came to the entrance of the cave and bawled out: “I am cold, I am hungry! Let me in!” Without further ado, he stooped and tried to get in; but, behold! the entrance was too small for his giant shoulders to pass. Then he pretended to be wonderfully civil, and said: “Come out, and bring me something to eat.”

“I have nothing for you,” cried the maiden. “I have eaten my food.”

“Have you no rabbits?”

“Yes.”

“Come out and bring me some of them.”

But the maiden was so terrified that she dared not move toward the entrance.

“Throw me a rabbit!” shouted the old Demon.