THE COYOTE AND THE BEETLE
In remote times, after our ancients were settled at Middle Ant Hill, a little thing occurred which will explain a great deal.

My children, you have doubtless. seen Tip-beetles. They run around on smooth, hard patches of ground in spring time and early summer, kicking their heels into the air and thrusting their heads into any crack or hole they find.

Well, in ancient times, on the pathway leading around to Fat Mountain, there was one of these Beetles running about in all directions in the sunshine, when a Coyote came trotting along. He pricked up his ears, lowered his nose, arched his neck, and stuck out his paw toward the Beetle.

"Ha!" said he, "I shall bite you!"

The Beetle immediately stuck his head down close to the ground, and, lifting one of his antennæ deprecatingly, exclaimed: "Hold on! Hold on, friend! Wait a bit, for the love of mercy! I hear something very strange down below here!"

"Humph!" replied the Coyote. "What do you hear?"

"Hush! hush!" cried the Beetle, with his head still to the ground. "Listen!"

So the Coyote drew back and listened most attentively. By-and-by the Beetle lifted himself with a long sigh of relief.

{p. 236}

"Okwe!" exclaimed the Coyote. "What was going on?"

"The Good Soul save us!" exclaimed the Beetle, with a shake of his head. "I heard them saying down there that tomorrow they would chase away and thoroughly chastise everybody who defiled the public trails of this country, and they are making ready as fast as they can!"

"Souls of my ancestors!" cried the Coyote. "I have been loitering along this trail this very morning, and have defiled it repeatedly. I'll cut!" And away he ran as fast as he could go.

The Beetle, in pure exuberance of spirits, turned somersaults and stuck his head in the sand until it was quite turned.

Thus did the Beetle in the days of the ancients save himself from being bitten. Consequently the Tip-beetle has that strange habit of kicking his heels into the air and sticking his head in the sand.

Thus shortens my story.

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HOW THE COYOTE DANCED WITH THE BLACKBIRDS
One late autumn day in the times of the ancients, a large council of Blackbirds were gathered, fluttering and chattering, on the smooth, rocky slopes of Gorge Mountain, northwest of Zuñi. Like ourselves, these birds, as you are well aware, congregate together in autumn time, when the harvests are ripe, to indulge in their festivities before going into winter quarters; only we do not move away, while they, on strong wings and swift, retreat for a time to the Land of Everlasting Summer.

Well, on this particular morning they were making a great noise and having a grand dance, and this was the way of it: They would gather in one vast flock, somewhat orderly in its disposition, on the sloping face of Gorge Mountain,--the older birds in front, the younger ones behind,--and down the slope, chirping and fluttering, they would hop, hop, hop, singing:

"Ketchu, Ketchu, oñtilã, oñtilã,
Ketchu, Ketchu, oñtilã, oñtilã!
Âshokta a yá-à-laa Ke-e-tchu,
Oñtilã,
Oñtilã!"--

Blackbirds, Blackbirds, dance away, O, dance away, O!
Blackbirds, Blackbirds, dance away, O, dance away, O!
Down the Mountain of the Gorges, Blackbirds,
Dance away, O!
Dance away, O!--

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and, spreading their wings, with many a flutter, flurry, and scurry, keh keh,--keh keh,--keh keh,--keh keh,--they would fly away into the air, swirling off in a dense, black flock, circling far upward and onward; then, wheeling about and darting down, they would dip themselves in the broad spring which flows out at the foot of the mountain, and return to their dancing place on the rocky slopes.

A Coyote was out hunting (as if he could catch anything, the beast!) and saw them, and was enraptured.

"You beautiful creatures!" he exclaimed. "You graceful dancers! Delight of my senses! How do you do that, anyway? Couldn't I join in your dance--the first part of it, at least?"

"Why, certainly; yes," said the Blackbirds.

"We are quite willing," the masters of the ceremony said.

"Well," said the Coyote, "I can get on the slope of the rocks and I can sing the song with you; but I suppose that when you leap off into the air I shall have to sit there patting the rock with my paw and my tail and singing while you have the fun of it."

"It may be," said an old Blackbird, "that we can fit you out so that you can fly with us."

"Is it possible!" cried the Coyote, "Then by all means do so. By the Blessed Immortals! Now, if I am only able to circle off into the air like you fellows, I'll be the biggest Coyote in the world!"

"I think it will be easy," resumed the old Blackbird. {p. 239} "My children," said he, "you are many, and many are your wing-feathers. Contribute each one of you a feather to our friend." Thereupon the Blackbirds, each one of them, plucked a feather from his wing. Unfortunately they all plucked feathers from the wings on the same side.

"Are you sure, my friend," continued the old Blackbird, "that you are willing to go through the operation of having these feathers planted in your skin? If so, I think we can fit you out."

"Willing?--why, of course I am willing." And the Coyote held up one of his arms, and, sitting down, steadied himself with his tail. Then the Blackbirds thrust in the feathers all along the rear of his forelegs and down the sides of his back, where wings ought to be. It hurt, and the Coyote twitched his mustache considerably; but he said nothing. When it was done, he asked: "Am I ready now?"

"Yes," said the Blackbirds; "we think you'll do."

So they formed themselves again on the upper part of the slope, sang their songs, and hopped along down with many a flutter, flurry, and scurry,--Keh keh, keh keh, keh keh,--and away they flew off into the air.

The Coyote, somewhat startled, got out of time, but followed bravely, making heavy flops; but, as I have said before, the wings he was supplied with were composed of feathers all plucked from one side, and therefore he flew slanting and spirally and brought up with a whack, which nearly knocked the breath out of him, against the side of the

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mountain. He picked himself up, and shook himself, and cried out: "Hold! Hold! Hold on, hold on, there!" to the fast-disappearing Blackbirds. "You've left me behind!"

When the birds returned they explained: "Your wings are not quite thick enough, friend; and, besides, even a young Blackbird, when he is first learning to fly, does just this sort of thing that you have been doing--makes bad work of it."

"Sit down again," said the old Blackbird. And he called out to the rest: "Get feathers from your other sides also, and be careful to select a few strong feathers from the tips of the wings, for by means of these we cleave the air, guide our movements, and sustain our flight."

So the Blackbirds all did as they were bidden, and after the new feathers were planted, each one plucked out a tail-feather, and the most skilful of the Blackbirds inserted these feathers into the tip of the Coyote's tail. It made him wince and "yip" occasionally; but he stood it bravely and reared his head proudly, thinking all the while: "What a splendid Coyote I shall be! Did ever anyone hear of a Coyote flying?"

The procession formed again. Down the slope they went, hopity-hop, hopity-hop, singing their song, and away they flew into the air, the Coyote in their midst. Far off and high they circled and circled, the Coyote cutting more eager pranks than any of the rest. Finally they returned, dipped themselves again into the spring, and settled on the slopes of the rocks.

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There, now," cried out the Coyote, with a flutter of his feathery tail, "I can fly as well as the rest of you.

"Indeed, you do well!" exclaimed the Blackbirds.

"Shall we try it again?"

"Oh, yes! Oh, yes! I'm a little winded," cried the Coyote, "but this is the best fun I ever had."

The Blackbirds, however, were not satisfied with their companion. They found him less sedate than a dancer ought to be, and, moreover, his irregular cuttings-up in the air were not to their taste. So the old ones whispered to one another: "This fellow is a fool, and we must pluck him when he gets into the air. We'll fly so far this time that he will get a little tired out and cry to us for assistance."

The procession formed, and hopity-hop, hopity-hop, down the mountain slope they went, and with many a flutter and flurry flew off into the air. The Coyote, unable to restrain himself, even took the lead. On and on and on they flew, the Blackbirds and the Coyote, and up and up and up, and they circled round and round, until the Coyote found himself missing a wing stroke occasionally and falling out of line; and he cried out: "Help! help, friends, help!"

"All right!" cried the Blackbirds. "Catch hold of his wings; hold him up!" cried the old ones. And the Blackbirds flew at him; and every time they caught hold of him (the old fool all the time thinking they were helping) they plucked out a feather, until at last the feathers had become so thin that he began to fall, and he fell and fell and

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fell,--flop, flop, flop, he went through the air,--the few feathers left in his forelegs and sides and the tip of his tail just saving him from being utterly crushed as he fell with a thud to the ground. He lost his senses completely, and lay there as if dead for a long time. When he awoke, he shook his head sadly, and, with a crestfallen countenance and tail dragging between his legs, betook himself to his home over the mountains.

The agony of that fall had been so great and the heat of his exertions so excessive, that the feathers left in his forelegs and tail-tip were all shrivelled up into little ugly black fringes of hair. His descendants were many.

Therefore you will often meet coyotes to this day who have little black fringes along the rear of their forelegs, and the tips of their tails are often black. Thus it was in the days of the ancients.

Thus shortens my story.

HOW THE TURTLE OUT HUNTING DUPED THE COYOTE
In the times of the ancients, long, long ago, near the Highflowing River on the Zuñi Mountains, there lived an old Turtle. He went out hunting, one day, and by means of his ingenuity killed a large, fine deer. When he had thrown the deer to the ground, he had no means of skinning it. He sat down and reflected, scratching the lid of his eye with the nail of his hind foot. He concluded he would have to go hunting for a flint-knife; therefore he set forth. He came after a while to a place where old buildings had stood. Then he began to hum an old magic song, such as, it is said, the ancients sung when they hunted for the flint of which to make knives. He sang in this way:

"Apatsinan tse wash,
Apatsinan tse wash,
Tsepa! Tsepa!"

which may be translated, not perhaps correctly, but well enough:

Fire-striking flint-stone, oh, make yourself known!
Fire-striking flint-stone, oh, make yourself known!
Magically! Magically!

As he was thus crawling about and singing, a Coyote running through the woods overheard him.

He exclaimed: "Uh! I wonder who is singing and what he is saying. Ah, he is hunting for a

{p. 244}

flint-knife, is he?--evidently somebody who has killed a deer!" He turned back, and ran over to where the old Turtle was. As he neared him, he cried out: "Halloo, friend! Didn't I hear you singing?"

"Yes," was the reply of the Turtle.

"What were you singing?"

"Nothing in particular."

"Yes, you were, too. What were you saying?"

"Nothing in particular, I tell you; at least, nothing that concerns you."

"Yes, you were saying something, and this is what you said." And so the Coyote, who could not sing the song, deliberately repeated the words he had heard.

"Well, suppose I did say so; what of that?" said the Turtle.

"Why, you were hunting for a flint-knife; that is why you said what you did," replied the Coyote.

"Well, what of that?"

"What did you want the flint-knife for?"

"Nothing in particular," replied the Turtle.

"Yes, you did; you wanted it for something. What was it?"

"Nothing in particular, I say," replied the Turtle. "At least, nothing that concerns you."

"Yes, you did want it for something," said the Coyote, "and I know what it was, too."

"Well, what?" asked the Turtle, who was waxing rather angry.

"You wanted it to skin a deer with; that's what you wanted it for. Where is the deer

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now, come? You have killed a deer and I know it. Tell, where is it."

"Well, it lies over yonder," replied the Turtle.

"Where? Come, let us go; I'll help you skin it."

"I can get along very well without you," replied the Turtle.

"What if I do help you a little? I am very hungry this morning, and would like to lap up the blood."

"Well, then, come along, torment!" replied the Turtle. So, finding a knife, they proceeded to where the deer was lying.

"Let me hold him for you," cried the Coyote. Whereupon he jumped over the deer, spread out its hind legs, and placed a paw on each of them, holding the body open; and thus they began to skin the deer. When they had finished this work, the Coyote turned to the Turtle and asked: "How much of him are you going to give me?"

"The usual parts that fall to anyone who comes along when the hunter is skinning a deer," replied the Turtle.

"What parts?" eagerly asked the Coyote.

"Stomach and liver," replied the Turtle, briefly.

"I won't take that," whined the Coyote. "I want you to give me half of the deer."

"I'll do no such thing," replied the Turtle. "I killed the deer; you only helped to skin him, and you ought to be satisfied with my liberality in giving you the stomach and liver alone. I'll throw in a little fat, to be sure, and some of the intestines; but I'll give you no more."

{p. 246}

"Yes, you will, too," snarled the Coyote, showing his teeth.

"Oh, will I?" replied the Turtle, deliberately, hauling in one or two of his flippers.

"Yes, you will; or I'll simply murder you, that's all."

The Turtle immediately pulled his feet, head, and tail in, and cried: "I tell you, I'll give you nothing but the stomach and liver and some of the intestines of this deer!"

"Well, then, I will forthwith kill you!" snapped the Coyote, and he made a grab for the Turtle. Kopo! sounded his teeth as they struck on the hard shell of the Turtle; and, bite as he would, the Turtle simply slipped out of his mouth every time he grabbed him. He rolled the Turtle over and over to find a good place for biting, and held him between his paws as if he were a bone, and gnawed at him; but, do his best, kopo, kopo! his teeth kept slipping off the Turtle's hard shell. At last he exclaimed, rather hotly: "There's more than one way of killing a beast like you!" So he set the Turtle up on end, and, catching up a quantity of sand, stuffed it into the hole where the Turtle's head had disappeared and tapped it well down with a stick until he had completely filled the crevice. "There, now," he exclaimed, with a snicker of delight. "I think I have fixed you now, old Hardshell, and served you right, too, you old stingy-box!"--whereupon he whisked away to the meat.

The Turtle considered it best to die, as it were;

{p. 247}

but he listened intently to what was going on. The Coyote cut up the deer and made a package of him in his own skin. Then he washed the stomach in a neighboring brook and filled it with choppings of the liver and kidneys, and fat stripped from the intestines, and clots of blood, dashing in a few sprigs of herbs here and there. Then, according to the custom of hunters in all times, he dug an oven in the ground and buried the stomach, in order to make a baked blood-pudding of it while he was summoning his family and friends to help him take the meat home.

The Turtle clawed a little of the sand away from his neck and peered out just a trifle. He heard the Coyote grunting as he tried to lift the meat in order to hang it on a branch of a neighboring pine tree. He was just exclaiming: "What a lucky fellow I am to come on that lame, helpless old wretch and get all this meat from him without the trouble of hunting for it, to be sure! Ah, my dear children, my fine old wife, what a feast we will have this day!"--for you know the Coyote had a large family over the way,--he was just exclaiming this, I say, when the Turtle cried out, faintly: "Natipa!"

"You hard-coated old scoundrel! You ugly, crooked-legged beast! You stingy-box!" snarled the Coyote. "So you are alive, are you?" Dropping the meat, he leaped back to where the Turtle was lying, his head hauled in again, and, jamming every crevice full of sand, made it hard and firm. Then, hitting the Turtle a clip with the

{p. 248}

tip of his nose, he sent him rolling over and over like a flat, round stone down the slope.

"This is fine treatment to receive from the hands of such a sneaking cur as that," thought the Turtle. "I think I will keep quiet this time and let him do as he pleases. But through my ingenuity I killed the deer, and it may be that through ingenuity I can keep the deer."

So the Turtle kept perfectly dead, to all appearances, and the Coyote, leaving the meat hanging on a low branch of a tree and building a fire over the oven he had excavated, whisked away with his tail in the air to his house just the other side of the mountain.

When he arrived there he cried out: "Wife, wife! Children, children! Come, quick! Great news! Killed an enormous deer today. I have made a blood-pudding in his stomach and buried it. Let us go and have a feast; then you must help me bring the meat home."

Those Coyotes were perfectly wild. The cubs, half-grown, with their tails more like sticks than brushes, trembled from the ends of their toe-nails to the tips of their stick-like tails; and they all set off--the old ones ahead, the young ones following single file-as fast as they could toward the place where the blood-pudding was buried.

Now, as soon as the old Turtle was satisfied that the Coyote had left, he dug the sand out of his collar with his tough claws, and, proceeding to the place where the meat hung, first hauled it up, piece by piece, to the very top of the tree; for Turtles

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have claws, you know, and can climb, especially if the trunk of the tree leans over, as that one did. Having hauled the meat to the very topmost branches of the tree, and tied it there securely, he descended and went over to where the blood-pudding was buried. He raked the embers away from it and pulled it out; then he dragged it off to a neighboring ant-hill where the red fire-ants were congregated in great numbers. Immediately they began to rush out, smelling the cooked meat, and the Turtle, untying the end of the stomach, chucked as many of the ants as he could into it. Then he dragged the pudding back to the fire and replaced it in the oven, taking care that the coals should not get near it.

He had barely climbed the tree again and nestled himself on his bundle of meat, when along came those eager Coyotes. Everything stuck up all over them with anxiety for the feast--their hair, the tips of their ears, and the points of their tails; and as they neared the place and smelt the blood and the cooked meat, they began to sing and dance as they came along, and this was what they sang:

"Na-ti tsa, na-ti tsa!
Tui-ya si-si na-ti tsa!
Tui-ya si-si na-li tsa!
Tui-ya si-si! Tui-ya si-si!"

We will have to translate this--which is so old that who can remember exactly what it means?--thus:

Meat of the deer, meat of the deer!
Luscious fruit-like meat of the deer!
{p. 250} Luscious fruit-like meat of the deer!
Luscious fruit-like! Luscious fruit-like

No sooner had they neared the spot where they smelt the meat than, without looking around at all, they made a bound for it. But the old Coyote grabbed the hindmost of the young ones by the car until he yelped, shook him, and called out to all the rest: "Look you here! Eat in a decent manner or you will burn your chops off! I stuffed the pudding full of grease, and the moment you puncture it, the grease, being hot, will fly out and burn you. Be careful and dignified, children. There is plenty of time, and you shall be satisfied. Don't gorge at the first helping!"

But the moment the little Coyotes were freed, they made a grand bounce for the tempting stomach, tearing it open, and grabbing huge mouthfuls. It may be surmised that the fire-ants were not comfortable. They ran all over the lips and cheeks of the voracious little gormands and bit them until they cried out, shaking their heads and rubbing them in the sand: "Atu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu!"

"There, now, didn't I tell you, little fools, to be careful? It was the grease that burnt you. Now I hope you know enough to eat a little more moderately. There's plenty of time to satisfy yourselves, I say," cried the old Coyote, sitting down on his haunches.

Then the little cubs and the old woman attacked the delicacy again. "Atu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu!" they exclaimed, shaking their heads and flapping their cars; and presently they all went away

{p. 251}

and sat down, observing this wonderful hot pudding.[1]

Then the Coyote looked around and observed that the meat was gone, and, following the grease and blood spots up the tree with his eye, saw in the top the pack of meat with the Turtle calmly reclining upon it and resting, his head stretched far out on his hand. The Turtle lifted his head and exclaimed: "Pe-sa-las-ta-i-i-i-i!"

"You tough-hided old beast!" yelled the Coyote, in an ecstasy of rage and disappointment. "Throw down some of that meat, now, will you? I killed that deer; you only helped me skin him; and here you have stolen all the meat. Wife! Children! Didn't I kill the deer?" he cried, turning to the rest.

"Certainly you did, and he's a sneaking old wretch to steal it from you!" they exclaimed in chorus, looking longingly at the pack of meat in the top of the tree.

"Who said I stole the meat from you?" cried out the Turtle. "I only hauled it up here to keep it from being stolen, you villain! Scatter yourselves out to catch some of it. I will throw as fine a pair of ribs down to you as ever you saw. There, now, spread yourselves out and get close together. Ready?" he called, as the Coyotes lay down on their backs side by side and stretched their paws as

[1. It may be well to explain here that there is no more intensely painful or fiery bite known than the bite of the fire-ant or red ant of the Southwest and the tropics, named, in Zuñi, halo. Large pimples and blisters are raised by the bite, which is so venomous, moreover, that for the time being it poisons the blood and fills every vein of the body with burning sensations.]

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high as they could eagerly and tremblingly toward the meat.

"Yes, yes!" cried the Coyotes, in one voice. "We are all ready! Now, then!"

The old Turtle took up the pair of ribs, and, catching them in his beak, 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?"

{p. 253}

"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 topknot, 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

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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,

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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?"

{p. 257}

"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

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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.

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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.

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"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

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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 away, 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

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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 bad 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

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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!

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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

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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,

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woefully 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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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."

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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 racecourse turned toward its end. When all these arrangements had been made, the old Gopher went back and settled himself comfortably in his nest.

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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,

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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

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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

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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

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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--

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Ayaa mash toki!
Ayaa mash toki!
Hai! i i i i!"[1]

and fell in a swoon, still wriggling, to the ground.

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.

[1. 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!"

]

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 tip 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

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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 cornfields, 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.

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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

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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?"

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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,

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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

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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

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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 snowstorm 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

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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

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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

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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.

The maiden threw him one of her precious

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rabbits at last, when she could rise and go to it. He clutched it with his long, horny hand, gave one gulp and swallowed it. Then he cried out: "Throw me another!" She threw him another, which he also immediately swallowed; and so on until the poor maiden had thrown all the rabbits to the voracious old monster. Every one she threw him he caught in his huge, yellow-tusked mouth, and swallowed, hair and all, at one gulp.

"Throw me another!" cried he, when the last had already been thrown to him.

So the poor maiden was forced to say "I have no more."

"Throw me your overshoes!" cried he.

She threw the overshoes of deerskin, and these like the rabbits he speedily devoured. Then he called for her moccasins, and she threw them; for her belt, and she threw it; and finally, wonderful to tell, she threw even her mantle, and blanket, and her overdress, until, behold, she had nothing left!

Now, with all he had eaten, the old Demon was swollen hugely at the stomach, and, though he tried and tried to squeeze himself through the mouth of the cave, he could not by any means succeed. Finally, lifting his great flint axe, he began to shatter the rock about the entrance to the cave, and slowly but surely he enlarged the hole and the maiden now knew that as soon as he could get in he would devour her also, and she almost fainted at the sickening thought. Pound, pound, pound, pound, went the great axe of the Demon as he struck the rocks.

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In the distance the two War-gods were sitting in their home at Thla-uthla (the Shrine amid the Bushes) beyond Thunder Mountain, and though far off, they heard thus in the middle of the night the pounding of the Demon's hammer-axe against the rocks. And of course they knew at once that a poor maiden, for the sake of her father and mother, had been out hunting,--that she had lost her way and, finding a cave where there was a little fire, entered it, rebuilt the fire, and rested herself; that, attracted by the light of her fire, the Cannibal Demon had come and besieged her retreat, and only a little time hence would he so enlarge the entrance to the cave that he could squeeze even his great over-filled paunch through it and come at the maiden to destroy her. So, catching up their wonderful weapons, these two War-gods flew away into the darkness and in no time they were approaching the Descending Plain of the Pines.

Just as the Demon was about to enter the cavern, and the maiden had fainted at seeing his huge face and gray shock of hair and staring eyes, his yellow, protruding tusks, and his horny, taloned hand, they came upon the old beast, and, each one hitting him a welt with his war-club, they "ended his daylight," and then hauled him forth into the open space. They opened his huge paunch and withdrew from it the maiden's garments, and even the rabbits which had been slain. The rabbits they cast away amongst the soap-weed plants that grew on the slope at the foot of the cliff. The garments

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they spread out on the snow, and by their knowledge cleansed and made them perfect, even more perfect than they had been before. Then, flinging the huge body of the giant Demon down into the depths of the cañon, they turned them about and, calling out gentle words to the maiden, entered and restored her; and she, seeing in them not their usual ugly persons, but handsome youths (as like to one another as are two deer born of the same mother), was greatly comforted; and bending low, and breathing upon their hands, thanked them over and over for the rescue they had brought her. But she crouched herself low with shame that her garments were but few, when, behold! the youths went out and brought in to her the garments they had cleaned by their knowledge, restoring them to her.

Then, spreading their mantles by the door of the cave, they slept there that night, in order to protect the maiden, and on the morrow wakened her. They told her many things, and showed her many things which she had not known before, and counselled her thus: "It is not fearful that a maiden should marry; therefore, O maiden, return unto thy people in the Village of the Gateway of the River of Zuñi. This morning we will slay rabbits unnumbered for you, and start you on your way, guarding you down the snow-covered valley, and when you are in sight of your home we will leave you, telling you our names."

So, early in the morning the two gods went forth; and flinging their sticks among the soap-weed

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plants, behold! as though the soap-weed plants were rabbits, so many lay killed on the snow before these mighty hunters. And they gathered together great numbers of these rabbits, a string for each one of the party; and when the Sun had risen clearer in the sky, and his light sparkled on the snow around them, they took the rabbits to the maiden and presented them, saying: "We will carry each one of us a string of these rabbits." Then taking her hand, they led her out of the cave and down the valley, until, beyond on the high black mesas at the Gateway of the River of Zuñi, she saw the smoke rise from the houses of her village. Then turned the two War-gods to her, and they told her their names. And again she bent low, and breathed on their hands. Then, dropping the strings of rabbits which they had carried close beside the maiden, they swiftly disappeared.

Thinking much of all she had learned, she continued her way to the home of her father and mother; and as she went into the town, staggering under her load of rabbits, the young men and the old men and women and children beheld her with wonder; and no hunter in that town thought of comparing himself with the Maiden Huntress of K'yawana Tehua-tsana. The old man and the old woman, who had mourned the night through and sat up anxiously watching, were overcome with happiness when they saw their daughter returning; and as she laid the rabbits at their feet, she said: "Behold! my father and my mother,

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foolish have I been, and much danger have I passed through, because I forgot the ways of a woman and assumed the ways of a man. But two wondrous youths have taught me that a woman may be a huntress and yet never leave her own fireside. Behold! I will marry, when some good youth comes to me, and he will hunt rabbits and deer for me, for my parents and my children."

So, one day, when one of those youths who had seen her come in laden with rabbits, and who had admired her time out of mind, presented himself with a bundle at the maiden's fireside, behold! she smilingly and delightedly accepted him. And from that day to this, when women would hunt rabbits or deer, they marry, and behold, the rabbits and deer are hunted.

Thus shortens my story.

THE UGLY WILD BOY WHO DROVE THE BEAR AWAY FROM SOUTHEASTERN MESA
In the days of the ancients there lived with his old grandmother, not far from K'iákime, east, where the sweet wafer-bread is pictured on the rocks, a frightfully ugly boy. The color of his body and face was blue. He had a twisted nose, crooked scars of various colors ran down each side of his face, and he had a bunch of red things like peppers on his head; in fact, in all ways he resembled the Héhea, or the wild men of the Sacred Dance who serve as runners to the priest-clowns.

Now, one season it had rained so much that the piñon trees were laden with nuts, and the datilas were heavy with fruit, and the gray grass and red-top were so heavy with seeds that even when the wind did not blow they bent as if in a breeze,

In vain the people of K'iákime went to the Southeastern Mesa, where the nut trees and datilas and grass grew. They could not gather the nuts and the fruit and the seeds, because of the ugly old Bear who claimed the country and its products for his own, and waxed fat thereon. Some of the people were killed by him, others were maimed, and all the rest were driven away.

One day the ugly little boy said to his grandmother: "O grandmother, I am going out to gather datilas and piñon nuts on the Southeastern Mesa."

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"Child, child!" cried the grandmother, "do not go; do not, by any means, go! You know very well there is an ugly Bear there who will either kill you or maim you frightfully."

"I don't care for all that!" cried the boy I am going!" Whereupon he went.

He followed the trail called the Road of the Pending Meal-sack, and he climbed the crooked path up Shoyakoskwe (Southeastern Mesa), and advanced over the wide plateau. No sooner had he begun to pluck the sweet datila fruit and eat of it, and had cracked between his teeth an occasional piñon nut, than "Wha-a-a-a!" snarled the old Bear; and he came rushing out of the nearest thicket toward the boy.

"U shoma kutchi kihe!" shouted the boy. "Friend, friend, don't bite me! It'll hurt! Don't bite me! I came to make a bargain with you."

"I'd like to know why I shouldn't bite you!" growled the Bear. "I'll tear you to pieces. What have you come to my country for, stealing my fruit and nuts and grass-seed?"

"I came to get something to eat," replied the boy. "You have plenty."

"Indeed, I have not. I will let you pick nothing. I will tear you to pieces!" said the Bear.

"Don't, don't, and I will make a bargain with you," said the boy.

"Who should talk of bargains to me?" yelled the Bear, cracking a small pine-tree to pieces with his paws and teeth, so great was his rage.

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"These things are no more yours than mine," said the boy, "and I'll prove it."

"How?" asked the Bear.

"They are mine; they are not yours!" cried the boy.

"They are mine, I tell you! They are not yours!" replied the Bear.

"They are mine!" retorted the boy.

And so they might have wrangled till sunset, or torn one another into pieces, had it not been for a suggestion that the boy made.

"Look here! I'll make a proposition to you," said he.

"What's that? asked the Bear.

"Whoever is certain of his rights on this plateau and the things that grow on it must prove it by not being scared by anything that the other does," said the boy.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the Bear, in his big, coarse voice. "That is a good plan, indeed. I am perfectly willing to stand the test."

"Well, now, one of us must run away and hide," said the boy, "and then the other must come on him unaware in some way and frighten him, if he can."

"All right," said the Bear. "Who first?"

"Just as you say," said the boy.

"Well, then, I will try you first," said the Bear, "for this place belongs to me." Whereupon he turned and fled into the thicket. And the boy went around picking datilas and eating them, and throwing the skins away. Presently the Bear

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came rushing out of the thicket, snapping the trees and twigs, and throwing them about at such a rate that you would have thought there was a sandstorm raging through the forest.

"Ku hai yaau!
Ku pekwia nu!
Ha! ha! ha! haaaa!"

he exclaimed, rushing at the boy from the rear.

The boy stirred never so much as a leaf, only kept on champing his datilas.

Again the Bear retired, and again he came rushing forth and snarling out: "Ha! ha! ha! hu! hu! hu!" in a terrific voice, and grabbed the boy; but never so much as the boy's heart stirred.

"By my senses!" exclaimed the Bear; "you are a man, and I must give it up. Now, suppose you try me. I can stand as much frightening as you, and, unless you can frighten me, I tell you you must keep away from my datila and piñon patch."

Then the boy turned on his heel and fled away toward his grandmother's house, singing as he went:

"Kuyaina itoshlakyanaa!
Kuyaina itoshlakyanaa!

He of the piñon patch frightened shall be!
He of the piñon patch frightened shall be

Oh! shall he?" cried his grandmother. "I declare, I am surprised to see you come back alive and well."

"Hurry up, grandmother," said the boy, "and paint me as frightfully as you can."

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"All right, my son; I will help you!" So she blackened the right side of his face with soot, and painted the left side with ashes, until he looked like a veritable demon. Then she gave him a stone axe of ancient time and magic power, and she said: "Take this, my son, and see what you can do with it."

The boy ran back to the mountain. The Bear was wandering around eating datilas. The boy suddenly ran toward him, and exclaimed:

"Ai yaaaa!
He! he! he! he! he! he! he! tooh!"--

and he whacked the side of a hollow piñon tree with his axe. The tree was shivered with a thundering noise, the earth shook, and the Bear jumped as if he had been struck by one of the flying splinters. Then, recovering himself and catching sight of the boy, he exclaimed: "What a fool I am, to be scared by that little wretch of a boy!" But presently, seeing the boy's face, he was startled again, and exclaimed: "By my eyes, the Death Demon is after me, surely!"

Again the boy, as he came near, whacked with his magic axe the body of another tree, calling out in a still louder voice. The earth shook so much and the noise was so thunderous that the Bear sneezed with agitation. And again, as the boy came still nearer, once more he struck a tree a tremendous blow, and again the earth thundered and trembled more violently than ever, and the Bear almost lost his senses with fright and thought surely

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the Corpse Demon was coming this time. When, for the fourth time, the boy struck a tree, close to the Bear, the old fellow was thrown violently to the ground with the heaving of the earth and the bellowing of the sounds that issued forth. Picking himself up as fast as he could, never stopping to see whether it was a boy or a devil, he fled to the eastward as fast as his legs would carry him, and, as he heard the boy following him, he never stopped until he reached the Zuñi Mountains.

"There!" said the boy; "I'll chase the old rogue no farther. He's been living all these years on the mountain where more fruit and nuts and grass-seed grow than a thousand Bears could eat, and yet he's never let so much as a single soul of the town of K'iákime gather a bit."

Then the boy returned to his grandmother, and related to her what had taken place.

"Go," said she, "and tell the people of K'iákime, from the top of yonder high rock, that those who wish to go out to gather grass-seed and datilas and piñon nuts need fear no longer."

So the boy went out, and, mounting the high rock, informed and directed the people as follows:

"Ye of the Home of the Eagles! Ye do I now inform, whomsoever of ye would gather datilas, whomsoever of ye would gather piñon nuts, whomsoever of ye would gather grass-seed, that bread may be made, hie ye over the mountains, and gather them to your hearts' content, for I have driven the Bear away!"

A few believed in what the boy said; and some,

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because he was ugly, would not believe it and would not go; and thus were as much hindered from gathering grass-seed and nuts for daily food as if the Bear had been really there. You know people nowadays are often frightened by such a kind of Bear as this.

Thus it was in the days of the ancients. And therefore the Zuñi Mountains to this day are filled with bears; but they rarely descend to the mesas in the southwest, being fully convinced from the experience of their ancestor that the Corpse Demon is near and continues to lie in wait for them. And our people go over the mountains as they will, even women and children, and gather datila fruit, piñon nuts, and grass-seed without hindrance.

Thus shortens my story.

THE REVENGE OF THE TWO BROTHERS ON THE HÁWIKUHKWE, OR THE TWO LITTLE ONES' AND THEIR TURKEYS
(THE ORIGIN OF THE PRIESTS AND CHIEFS OF THE DANCE OF VICTORY)
Long, long ago, there lived on Twin Mountain, Áhaiyúta and his younger brother, with their grandmother. They had a large flock of Turkeys of which they were very fond, but were not so attentive to them as they should have been. Said the grandmother to the boys, late one morning: "Let your poor Turkeys out, for they will starve, poor birds, if you do not let them out oftener."

"But they will run away, grandmother," said the two boys, who did not fancy herding them much of the time.

"Why should they run away?" asked the vexed grandmother, who had a sorry enough time managing the two heedless boys. "Rest assured they will come back when roosting-time comes, for such is their custom."

So the Twain ran down and reluctantly let their Turkeys go. The Turkeys were many-dirty old hens, piping, long-legged youngsters, and noisy old

[1. This term refers to the two Gods of War, Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma, who, as has been seen in previous tales, were accounted immortal twin youths of small size.]

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cocks; but they were all more noisy when they were let out, and not long was it before they were straying far beyond the border of woods and toward Háwikuh.

Not long after noon the flock of Turkeys strolled, gobbling and chirping, into the valley north of Háwikuh[1] where many of the people of that pueblo had corn-fields. Some young men who were resting from their hoeing heard the calls of the Turkeys, and, starting up, saw across the valley a larger flock than they had ever been wont to find. Of course they were crazy. They started up and ran as fast as they could toward the pueblo, calling out as they went what they had discovered, so that all the people in the fields began to gather in. As soon as they came within the pueblo, they sought out the Priests of the Bow and told them what they had discovered.

Very quickly ran the priests to the tops of the houses, and they began to call out to their people: "Ye we would this day make wise, for our sons tell us of many Turkeys in the valley over the hill; so hasten ye to gather together good bows and arrows, boomerangs, and strings, that ye may be made happy and add unto your flocks and make more plentiful the plumes in your feather boxes."

In a very short time the people were rushing out of their doorways all prepared for the chase,

[1. Háwikuh, or Aguico of the Spaniards, a pueblo now in ruins across the valley northwestward from Ojo Caliente, the southwestern farming town of the Zuñis.]

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and they ran after the young men and leaders as though in a race of the kicked stick.

Now, the sage-bushes and grasses grow tall to this day in the valley north of Háwikuh, and so they grew in the days long, long ago that I tell of. It thus happened that the poor Turkeys who were racing after grasshoppers, and peeping, and calling, and gobbling, did not know that the Háwikuh people were after them until they heard some old hens calling out in alarm from behind. Even then they were unable to get away, for the people were around them shouting and hurling crooked sticks, and shooting sharp arrows at them in all directions. Soon they began to fall on every side, especially the long-legged young ones, who so tangled their legs in the grasses that they could not keep up with their mothers, and were easily overtaken by the hunters of Háwikuh; and the old hens who stayed behind to look after the young ones were no better, and the cocks who stayed back to look after the old hens were even worse off, for the people sought them most because their feathers were so much brighter.

So it happened in a very short time that more than half the flock were killed and others were falling when a half-grown Long-leg started as fast as he could alone toward Twin Mountain.

It was growing late, and Áhaiyúta and his younger brother and their old grandmother were on top of their house shading their eyes and watching for the return of the Turkeys, when they saw the solitary young Long-leg coming, all out of

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breath and his wings dragging, over the hill below Master Cañon.

"Ha!" said the younger brother; "look! there comes a Long-legs,--and what is he shouting?--Jump up, brother, jump up! Do you hear that?"

"I-wo-loh-kia-a-a-a!" called the Turkey, so that they could just hear him; and as that means "Murder! Murder!" you may think to yourself how much they were excited; but they were not so much alarmed as the old grandmother, "for," said they, one to the other, "it is nothing but a youngster, anyway, and they are always more scared than the old ones."

Nevertheless, they hastened down to meet him, and as they approached they saw that he was terribly frightened, so they anxiously waited until he breathed more easily and would stand still; then they asked: "What is it? Where is it? Why do you come alone, crying 'Murder, Murder!'"

"Alas! my fathers," exclaimed the Turkey.

Alas! I, alone, am left to tell of it; ere I left they were thrown down all around me."

"Who did this?" angrily demanded the boys.

"The people of Háwikuh," exclaimed the Turkey, glancing apprehensively around.

"Ha! we shall yet win back our loss," ejaculated the boys to one another; and then they turned to the Turkey. "Are they all murdered and gone?" they asked.

"Yes, alas! yes; I alone am left," moaned the young Turkey.

"Oh, no!" broke in the elder brother, "' there

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will yet many return, for this is but a Long-leg, and surely when he could save himself others and older ones could." Even then they heard some of the Turkeys calling to one another, out of breath over the low hills. "U-kwa-tchi!" ("Didn't I tell you!") exclaimed Áhaiyúta, and they started toward the mountain.

One by one, or in little bunches, the Turkeys came fleeing in, scared, weary, and bedraggled; and the boys knew by this, and that only a few after all returned, that the Long-leg had not been for nothing taught to fear. They betook themselves to their house. There they sat down to eat with their grandmother, and after the eating was finished, they poked little sticks into the blazing fire on the hearth, and cried out to their grandmother: "Tomorrow, grandmother, we will gather fagots."

"Foolish, foolish boys!" croned the old grandmother.

"Aye, tomorrow we will gather sprouts. Where do they grow thickest and straightest, grandmother?"

"Now, you boys had better let sprouts and war alone," retorted the grandmother.

"But we must win back our losing," cried the boys, with so much vehemence that the grandmother only shook her head and exclaimed: "A-ti-ki! (" Blood!") Strange creatures, my grandchildren, both!" whereupon the two boys poked one the other and laughed.

"Well," added the grandmother, "I have warned

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you; now act your own thoughts";--and the boys looked at her as earnestly as though they knew nothing of what she would say. "Fine warriors, indeed, who do not know where to look for arrow-sticks! But if you will go sprouting, why, over there in the Rain-pond Basin are plenty of sprouts, and then north on Scale Ridge grow more, and over in Oak Cañon are fine oak-sprouts, more than ten boys like you could carry, and above here around Great Mountain are other kinds, and everywhere grow sprouts enough, if people weren't beasts passing understanding; and, what's more, I could tell you boys something to your advantage if you would ever listen to your old grandmother, but--"

"What is it? What is it?" interrupted the boys excitedly, just as if they knew nothing of what she would say.

"Why, over there by the Rain-pond Basin lives your grandfather--"

"Who's that? Who's that?" interrupted the boys again.

"I've a mind not to tell you, you shameless little beasts, another word," jerked out the old grandmother, sucking her lips as if they were marrowbones, and digging into the pudding she was stirring as though it were alive enough to be killed,--"just as though I were not telling you as fast as I could; and, besides, anything but little beasts would know their grandfather--why, the Rainbow-worm, of course!"[1]

[1. One of the "measuring-worms" which is named the rainbow, on account of his streaked back and habit of bending double when travelling.]

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The Rainbow-worm our grandfather, indeed!" persisted the boys; and they would have said more had not their grandmother, getting cross, raised the pudding-stick at them, and bid them "shut up!" So they subsided, and the old woman continued: "Yes, your grandfather, and for shame! You may sit there and giggle all you please, but your grandfather the Rainbow-worm is a great warrior, I can tell you, and if you boys will go sprouting, why, I can tell you, you will fare but with poverty the day after, if you do not get him to help you, that's all!"

"Indeed," replied the boys, quite respectfully.

"Yes, that I tell you; and, moresoever, over there beyond at the wood border, in a pond, is your other grandfather, and he is a great warrior, too."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the boys, as though they did not know that already, also.

"Yes, and you must go to see him, too; for you can't get along without him any more than without the other. Now, you boys go to sleep, for you will want to get up very early in the morning, and you must go down the path and straight over the little hills to where your grandfathers live, and not up into the Master Cañon to gather your sticks, for if you do you will forget all I've told you. You are creatures who pass comprehension, you two grandchildren of mine."

So the two boys lay down in the corner together under one robe, like a man and his wife, for they did not sleep apart like our boys. But, do you

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know, those two mischievous boys giggled and kicked one another, and kept turning about, just as though they never dreamed of the morning. Then they fell to quarrelling about who could turn over the quicker.

"I can," said the elder brother.

"You can't I can! No, you can 't!"

"Yes, I can, and I'll show you"; and he was about to brace himself for the trial when the old grandmother strode over with her pudding-stick, lifting it in the air, with her usual expression of "Blood! my grandchildren both," when they quieted down and pretended to sleep; but still they kept giggling and trying to pull the cover off each other.

"Stop that gaping and fooling, will you? And go to sleep, you nasty little cubs!" cried the irritated old woman; and laughing outright at their poor old grandmother, they put their arms around each other and fell asleep.

Next morning the sun rose, till he shone straight over the mountain, but still the two boys were asleep. The old grandmother had gone out to water her garden, and now she was sitting on the house-top shading her eyes and looking down the trail she had told the boys to follow, to see them come out of the shadow.

After she had strained her poor old eyes till they watered, she grew impatient: "Did I ever see such boys! Now they've gone and played me

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another trick. They'll rue their pranks some day." Then she thought she would go down and get some mush for breakfast. As she climbed down the ladder, she heard a tremendous snoring. "Ho, hot" exclaimed the old grandmother; and striding across the room she shook the boys soundly. "Get up, get up! you lazy creatures; fine sprouters, you!"

The boys rolled over, rubbed their eyes, and began to stretch.

"Get up, get up! the day is warmed long ago; fine warriors, you!" reiterated the old woman, giving them another shaking.

The boys sat up, stretched, gaped, rubbed their eyes, and scratched their heads--the dirtiest little fellows ever seen--but they were only making believe. Their arms were crusty with dirt, and their hair stood out like down on a wild milkweed after a rain-storm, and yet these boys were the handsomest children that ever lived--only they were fooling their old grandmother, you see.

"You'd better be down at the spring washing your eyes at sunrise, instead of scratching your heads here with the sun shining already down the skyhole"; croaked the old woman.

"What! is the sun out?" cried the boys in mock surprise; but they knew- what time it was as well as the old crone did.

"Out! I should say it was! You boys might as well go to sleep again. A fine bundle of sticks you could get today, with the sun done climbing up already"

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So the boys pretended to be in a great hurry and, grabbing up their bows and quivers, never stopped to half dress nor heeded the old woman's offer of food, but were jumping down the crags like mountain goats before the old woman was up the ladder.

"Atiki!" exclaimed the grandmother; "these beasts that cause meditation!" Then she climbed the terrace and watched and watched and watched; but the boys liked nothing better than to worry their old grandmother, so they ran up Master Cañon and into the woods and so across to Rain-pond Basin, leaving the old woman to look as she would.

"Uhh!" groaned the old woman; "they are down among the rocks playing. Fine warriors, they!" and with this she went back to her cooking.

By-and-by the boys came to the edge of the basin where the pod plant grew. Sure enough, there was the Rainbow-worm, eating leaves as though he were dying of hunger-a great fat fellow, as big as the boys themselves; for long, long ago, in the days I tell you of, the Rainbow-worm was much bigger than he is now.

"Hold on," said the younger brother. "Let's frighten the old fellow."

So they sneaked up until they were close to the grandfather, and then they began to tickle him with a stalk. Amiwili--that was his name--twitched his skin and bit away faster and faster at the leaves, until Áhaiyúta shouted at the top of his voice, "Ha-u-thla!" which made the old man jump and

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turn back so quickly that he would have broken his back had he a back-bone.

"Shoma!" he exclaimed. "It's my grandchildren, is it? I am old and a little deaf, and you frightened me, my boys."

"Did we frighten you, grandfather? That's too bad. Well, never mind; we've come to you for advice."

"What's that, my grandchildren?" looking out of his yellow eyes as though he were very wise, and standing up on his head and tail as though they had been two feet.

"Why, you see," said the boys "we had a big drove of Turkeys, and we let them out to feed yesterday, but the fools got too near Háwikuh and the people there killed many, many of them; so we have decided to get back our winnings and even the game with them, the shameless beasts!"

"Ah ha!" exclaimed old Amiwili. "Very well!" and he lay down on his belly and lifted his head into the air like a man resting on his elbows. "Ah ha!" said he, with a wag of his head and a squint of his goggle. "Ah ha! Very well! I'll show them that they are not to treat my grandchildren like that. I'm a warrior, every direction of me--and there are a great many directions when I get angry, now, I can tell you! I'm just made to use up life," said he, with another swagger of his head.

"Listen to that!" said Mátsailéma to his brother.

"To use up life, that's what I'm for," added

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the old man, with emphasis; "I'll show the Háwikuhkwe!"

"Will you come to the council?" asked the two boys.

"Shuathla," swaggered the old man--which is a very old-fashioned word that our grandfathers used when they said: "Go ye but before me."

So the boys skipped over to the pool at the wood border. There was their old grandfather, the Turtle, with his eyes squinted up, paddling round in the scum, and stretching his long neck up to bite off the heads of the water-rushes.

"Let's have some fun with the old Shield-back," said the boys to one another. "just you hold a moment, brother elder," said Mátsailéma as he fitted an arrow to the string and drew it clean to the point. Tsi-i-i-i thle-e-e! sang the arrow as it struck the back of the old Turtle; and although he was as big as the Turtles in the big Waters of the World now are, the force and fright ducked him under the scum like a chip, and he came up with his eyes slimy and his mouth full of spittle, and his legs flying round too fast to be counted. When he spied the two boys, he cursed them harder than their grandmother did, but they hardly heard him, for their arrow glanced upward from his back and came down so straight that they had to run for their lives. "Atiki! troublesome little beasts, who never knew what shame nor dignity was!" exclaimed the old fellow.

"Don't be angry with us, grandpa," said the boys. "You must be deaf, for we called and

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called to you, but you only paddled round and ate rushes; so we thought we would fire an arrow at you, for you know we couldn't get at you."

"Oh, that's it! Well, what may my grandchildren be thinking of, in thus coming to see me? It cannot be for nothing," reflected the old man, as he twisted his head up toward them and pushed the scum with his tail.

"Quite true, grandfather; we've started out sprouting, and had to come to our grandfather for advice."

"Why, what is it then?" queried the old Shield-back.

"You see, we have a flock of Turkeys--"

"Yes, I know," interrupted the old man, "for they came down here to drink yesterday and broke my morning nap with their 'quit quit quittings!'"

"Well," resumed the boys, "they went toward the Háwikuhkwe, and the shameless beasts, that they are, turned out and killed very nearly all of them, and we're going to even matters with them; that's why we are out sprouting."

"Ah ha!" cried the old man, paddling up nearer to the bank. "Good! Well, that's right, my grandchildren; you show that you are the wise boys that you are to come to me. I'm a great warrior, I am, for though I have neither bow nor arrow, yet the more my enemies have, the worse for themselves, that's all. You two just wait until tomorrow," and he stretched his head out until it looked as though he kept a snake in his shell.

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"Will you help us?" asked the boys. (They knew very well he would like nothing better.)

"Of course, my grandchildren."

"Will you come to the council?"

"Of course, my grandchildren two. How many will be there?" called the old fellow.

"The house shall be as full as a full stomach," retorted the boys, jousting each other.

"Thluathlá!" gruffly said Etawa, for that was the Turtle's name.

So the boys started for Oak-wood Canon, and, arrived there, soon had a large bundle of branches cut down with their big flint knives, and four stout, dry oak-sticks. They shouldered their "sprouts" and started home, and, although they had bundles big enough to almost hide them, they trotted along as though they had nothing. On their way they picked up a lot of obsidian, and went fast enough until they were near their home, and then they were "very tired"--so tired that the old grandmother, when she caught sight of them, pitied them, and hurried down to stir some mush for them. She buried some corn-cakes in the ashes, too, and roasted some prairie-dogs in the same way; so that when those two lying little rascals came up and seemed so worn-out, she hurried so fast to get their food ready that it made her sinews twitch.

When the boys had eaten all they could and cracked a few prairie-dog bones, they fell to breaking the sprouts. They worked with their stone chips very fast, and soon had barked all they

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wanted. These they straightened by passing them through their horns I and placed them before the fire. While the shafts were drying, they broke up the obsidian, and. laying chips of it on a stone covered with buckskin, quickly fashioned them into sharp arrow-heads with the points of other stones, and these they fastened to the ends of the shafts, placing feathers of the eagle on the other ends, until they had made enough for four big bundles. Then they made a bow of each of the four oak-sticks, and stood them up to dry against the wall.

As it grew dark they heard something like a dry leaf in a little wind.

"Ah said one to the other," our grandfather comes"; and sure enough presently Amiwili poked his yellow eyes in at the door, but quickly drew back again.

"Kutchi!" said he, "your fire is fearful; it scares me!"

"The grandfather cometh!" exclaimed the boys. "Come in; sit down."

"Very well. Ah! you are stretching shafts, are you?" said the old Worm, crawling around behind the boys and into the darkest corner he could find.

"Yes," replied they. "Why do you not come out into the light, grandpa?"

[1. Fragments of mountain-sheep horn are used to this day by the Zuñis for the same purpose. They are flattened by heat and perforated with holes of varying size. By introducing the shaft to be straightened, and rubbing with a twisting motion the inner sides of the crooked portions, they are gradually straightened out, afterward to be straightened by hand from time to time as they dry before the fire.]

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"Kutchi! I fear the fire; it hurts my eyes, and makes me feel as the sun does after a rain-storm and I have no leaves to crawl into."

"Very well," said the boys. "Grandmother, spread a robe for him in the corner." Then they busied themselves straightening some of the arrows and trying their bows. just as they were pulling one toward the entrance way, they heard old Etawa thumping along, and immediately the old fellow called out: "Hold on; don't thump me against one of those sticks of yours; they jar a fellow so!"

"Oh, it 's you, is it, grandfather? Well, we 're only trying our new bows; come in and sit down." So the old fellow bumped along in and took his place by the fire, for he did not care whether it was hot or cold.

"Are the councillors here?" asked he, wagging his head around.

"Why, certainly," said the two boys; "and now our council is so full we had better proceed to discuss what we had better do."

When the old Turtle discovered that the boys had been playing him a joke, he was vexed, but he didn't show it. "Amiwili here?" asked he. "Tchukwe! We four will teach those Háwikuhkwe!"

"Yes, indeed!" croaked the Rainbow-worm.

"Well," said the boys, "at daybreak tomorrow morning, before it is light, we shall start for Háwikuh-town."

"Very well," responded Amiwili. "Come to my place first, and let me know when you start."

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And," added Etawa, "come to my place next and let me know. When you boys get to Háwikuh and alarm the people, if they get too thick for you, come back to my house as fast as you can, and you, Mátsailéma, take me up on your back. Then you two run toward your other grandfather's house. I'll show these Háwikuhkwe that I can waste life as much as anybody, even if I have no arrows to shoot at them."

"Yes," added the Rainbow-worm, "and when you come up to my house, just run past me and I'll take care of the rest of them. I'm made to use up life, I am," swaggered he.

"And I," boasted the old Turtle. "Come, brother, let us be going, for we have a long way to travel, and our legs are short." So, after feasting, the two started away.

As soon as they had gone, the two boys went to their corner and lay down to rest, first filling their quivers with arrows, and laying their water-shield[1] out on the floor. They were presently quiet, and then began to snore; so their old grandmother went into another room and brought out a new bowl which she filled with water. Then she retired into the room again, and when she came out she was dressed in beautiful embroidered mantles and

[1. The kia-al-lan, or water-shield, is represented in modern times by a beautiful netting of white cotton threads strung on a round hoop, with a downy plume suspended from the center. This, with the dealings of Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma with arrows of lightning, and the simile of their father the Sun, leaves little doubt that they are, in common with mystic creations of the Aryans, representatives of natural phenomena or their agents. This is even more closely suggested by the sequel.]

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skirts and decorated with precious ornaments of shell and turquoise.

The noise she made awoke Áhaiyúta, who punched his younger brother, and said: "Wake up, wake up! Here 's grandmother dressed as though she were going to a dance!"

Then the younger brother raised his voice to a sharp whisper (they knew perfectly well what the old grandmother was intending to do) What for?"

"Here!" said the old woman, turning toward the bed. "Go to sleep! What are you never-weary little beasts doing now? For shame! You pretend you are going out to war tomorrow!"

"Why are you dressed so, grandmother?" ventured the younger.

"What should I be dressed for but to make medicine for you two? Now, mind, you must not watch me. I shall make the medicine and place it in these two cane tubes, and you must shoot them into the middle of the plaza of Háwikuh as soon as you get there. That will make the people like women; for the canes will break and make the medicine fly about like mist, and whomsoever gets his skin wet by it, will become no more of a warrior than a woman. Go to sleep, I say, you pests!"

But the boys had no intention of sleeping. To be sure, they stretched themselves out and slyly laid their arms across their eyes. The old grandmother did not notice this at first. She began to wash her arms in the bowl of water. Then she

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rubbed them so hard that the yepna ("substance of flesh") was rolled off in little lumps and fell into the water. This she began to mix carefully with the water, when Áhaiyúta whispered to the other: "Brother younger, just look! Old grandmother's arms look as bright as a young girl's. Look, look!" said he, still louder, for the other had already begun to giggle; but when the old woman turned to talk sharply at them, they turned over, the rascals, as dutifully as though they had never joked with their poor old grandmother. Soon they were indeed sleeping.

Then the grandmother proceeded to fill the canes with the fluid, and then she fastened these to the ends of two good arrows. "There!" she exclaimed, with a sigh; and after she had chanted an incantation over the canes, she laid some food near the boys and softly left the room, to sleep.

The boys never minded the things they had to do in the morning, but slept soundly until the coming of day, when they arose, took their bows and quivers, knives, war-clubs, arrows, and water-shield, and quietly stole away.

It was not long ere they approached the house of Amiwili. He was fairly gorging the leaves of all the lizard plants he could lay hold of, and already looked so full that he must have felt like a ball. But he munched away so busily that he wouldn't have looked at the boys had it been light enough.

"How did our grandfather come unto the morning?" asked they.

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"Thluathlá!" ("Get out!") was all the old Worm vouchsafed them between his cuds; and they sped on.

Soon they reached the home of the old Turtle. This old grandfather was more leisurely. "You will return at the height of the sun," said he. "Now mind what I told you last night. I'll wait right here on the bank for you."

"Very well," laughed the boys, for little they cared that they were on the war-path.

By-and-by they neared the town of Háwikuh. It was twilight, for the morning star was high. The boys sat down a moment and sang an incantation,--the same our fathers and children, the Ápithlan Shíwani, sing now. Then the younger brother ran round the pueblo to scout. Two or three people were getting up, as he could see, for nearly everybody slept on the roofs, it was so warm.

"Iwolohkia-a-a!" cried he, at the top of his voice; and as the people were rousing he drew one of the cane arrows full length in his bow, and so straight and high did he shoot, that it fell thl-i-i-i-i! into the middle of the plaza, splitting and scattering medicine-water in every direction, so that the people all exclaimed, as they rubbed their eyes: "Ho! it is raining, and yet the sky is clear! And didn't some one cry 'Murder, murder!'"

When Áhaiyúta's arrow struck, it scattered more medicine-water upon them, until they thought they must be dreaming of rain; but just then Mátsailéma shouted, "Ho-o-o! Murder!" again,

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and everybody started to hunt bows and arrows. Then the boy ran to the hiding-place of his brother in the grass on the trail toward the wood border, and just as he got there, some of the people who were shouting and gabbling to one another ran out to see him.

"Ha!" they shouted, "there they are, on the northern trail."

So the Háwikuhkwe all poured down toward them, but when they arrived there they found no enemy. While the people were looking and running about, tsok tsok, and tsok tsok, and tsok tsok, the arrows of Áhaiyúta, and Mátsailéma struck the nearest ones, for they had crawled along the trail and were waiting in the grass. They never missed. Every man they struck fell, but many, many came on, and when these saw that there were only two, their faces were all the more to the front with haste. Still the two boys shot, shot, shot at them until many were killed or wounded before the remainder decided to flee.

"Come, brother, my arrows are gone," said the younger brother. "Quick! put on the water-shield, and let us be off!" Now, the people were gaining on them faster and faster, but Áhaiyúta threw water like thick rain from his shield strapped over his back, so that the enemies' bow-strings loosened, and they had to stop to tighten them again and again.

Whenever the Háwikuhkwe pressed them too closely, the water-shield sprinkled them so thoroughly that when they nocked an arrow the sinew

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bow-string stretched like gum, and all they could do was to stop and tighten their bow-strings again. Thus the boys were able to near the home of their grandfather, the big Turtle, now and then shooting at the leaders with their warring arrows and rarely missing their marks.

But as they came near, the people were gathering more and more thickly in their rear, so that Mátsailéma barely had time to take his grandfather--who was waiting on the bank of the pond--upon his back.

"Now, run you along in front and we'll follow behind," said old Etawa, as he put one paw over the left shoulder and the other under the right arm, and clasped his legs tightly around the loins of Mátsailéma so as to hug close to his back.

"Grandfather, kutchi! You are as heavy as a rock and as hard as one, too," said the younger brother. How can I dodge those stinging beasts?

"That 's all the better for you," said the old Turtle, loosening his grip a little; "take it easy."

'They're coming! They're coming!" shouted Áhaiyúta from ahead. "Hurry, hurry, brother younger; hurry!" But Mátsailéma couldn't get along any faster than he could.

Presently the old Turtle glanced around and saw that the people were gaining on them and already drawing their bows. "Duck your head down and never mind them. Now, you'll see what I can do!" said he, pulling into his shell.

Thle-e-e, thle-thle-thle-e-e, rattled the arrows

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against old Etawa's shell, and the warriors were already shouting, "Ho-o-o-awiyeishikia!"--which was their cry of victory,--when they began to cry out in other tones, for tsuiya! their arrows glanced from old Turtle's shell and struck themselves, so that they dropped in every direction. "Terror and blood! but those beings can shoot fast and hard!" shouted they to one another, but they kept pelting away harder and faster, only to hit one another with the glancing arrows.

"Hold!" cried one in advance of the others. "Head them off! Head them off! We're only shooting ourselves against that black shield of theirs, and the other loosens our bow-strings."

But just then Áhaiyúta reached the home of his other grandfather, Amiwili. Behold! he was all swollen up with food and could hardly move--only wag his head back and forth.

"Are you coming?" groaned the old fellow.

"Quick, get out of the way, all of you! Quick, quick!"

Áhaiyúta jumped out of the way just as Mátsailéma cried out: "Ha hua! I can run no farther; I must drop you, grandfather,"--but he saw Áhaiyúta jump to one side, so he followed, too.

Old Amiwili reared himself and, opening his mouth, waah! weeh! right and left he threw the lizard leaves he had been eating, until the Háwikuhkwe were blinded and suffocated by them, and, dropping their bows and weapons, began to clutch their eyes from blindness and pain. And old Amiwili coughed and coughed till he had blown nearly all

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his substance away, and there was nothing left of him but a worm no bigger than your middle finger.

"Drop me and make your winnings," cried the old Turtle. "I guess I can take care of myself," he chuckled from the inside of his shell; and it was short work for the boys to cast down all their enemies whom Amiwili had blown upon, and the others fled terrified toward Háwikuh.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the two boys as they began to take off the scalps of the Háwikuhkwe. "These caps are better than half a flock of Turkeys."

"Who'll proclaim our victory to our people?" said they, suddenly stopping; and one would have thought they belonged to a big village and a great tribe instead of to a lone house on top of Twin Mountain, with a single old granny in it; but then that was their way, you know.

"I will! I will!" cried the old Turtle, as he waddled off toward Twin Mountain and left the boys to skin scalps.

When he came to the top of the low hill south of Master Cañon, he stuck a stick up in the air and shouted.

"Hoo-o! Hawanawi-i-i-i!" which is the shout of victory; and, not seeing the old woman, he cried out two or three times.

"Hoo-o! Iwolohkia-a-a!" which, as you know, means "Murder! Murder!" The old woman heard it and was frightened. She threw an old robe over her shoulders, and, grabbing up the fire-poker, started down as fast as her limping old limbs

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would let her, and nearly tumbled over when she heard old Etawa shout again, "Iwolohkia!"

"Ha!" said she; "I'll teach the shameless Turkey killers, if I am an old woman;" and she shook her fire-poker in the air until she came up to where the old Turtle was waiting.

Here, just as she came near, the old Turtle pretended not to see her, but stood up on his legs, and, holding his pole with one hand, cried out "Hoo-o! Hawanawi-i-i-i!" which was the shout of victory, as I told you before.

"What is it?" cried the old woman, as she limped along up and said: "Ah! ahi!" ("My poor old legs!")

"Victory!" said the proud Turtle, scarcely deigning to look at her.

Who has this day renewed himself?" she inquired.

"Thy grandchildren," answered the old Turtle.

"Have they won?" asked the old woman, as she said: "Thanks this day!"

"Many caps," replied the Turtle.

"Will they celebrate?"

"Yes."

"Who will purify and pass them?" asked the granny.

"Why, you will."

"Who will bathe the scalps?

"Why, I will."

[1. The ridiculousness of the dialogue which follows may readily be understood when it is explained that each office in the celebration of victory has to be performed by a distinct individual of specified clans according to the function.]

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Who will swing the scalps round the pueblo?"

"Why, you will."

"Who will adopt them?"

"Why, you will."

"Who will bring out the feast?

"Why, you will."

"Who will be the priest of initiation?

"Why, I will."

"Who will be the song-master?"

"Why, I will."

"Who will be the dancers?"

"Why, I will."

"Who will draw the arrows and sacrifice them?"

"Why, I will."

"Who will strive for the sacrificed arrows?"

"Why, I will."

"Who will lead the dance of victory?"

"Why, I will."

"Who will be the dancers?"

"Why, I will."

"Who will go to get the women to join the dance?"

"Why, I will."

"What women will dance?"

"Why, you will."

"ho will take them to preside at the feast of their relatives-in-law?"

"Why, you will."

"Who will be their relatives-in-law?"

"Why, you will."

"Who will be the priests of their Father Society?"

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"Why, I will."

And they might have talked that way till sunset had not the voices of the two boys, singing the song of victory, been heard coming over the hill. There they were, coming with two great strings of scalps as big as a bunch of buckskins.

"Oh! poor me! How shall I swing all those scalps round the pueblo?" groaned the poor old woman as she limped off to dress for the ceremony.

"Why, swing them," answered the old Turtle, as he stretched himself up with the importance of being master of ceremonies.

So the boys brought the scalps up and the old Turtle strung them thickly on a long pole.

So day after day they danced and sang, to add strands to the width of the boys' badges. And the old Turtle was master-priest of ceremonies and people, low priest, song-master, and dancers; sacrificer of arrows and striver after the arrows. He would beat the drum and sing a little, then run and dance out the measure; but it was very hard work.

And the old woman was mother of the children and sisters, and their clan, and somebody's else clan, matron of ceremonials, and maidens of ceremonials-all at the same time;--but it was very hard work, consequently they didn't get along very well.

That's the reason why today we have so many song-masters and singers, dance leaders and dancers, priests and common people, father clans and mother clans, in the great Ceremony of Victory.

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Thus it happened with Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma and their old grandmother, and their grandfathers the Rainbow-worm and the old Turtle. That is the reason why rainbow-worms are no bigger than your finger now, because their great grandfather blew all his substance away at the Háwikuhkwe. That's the reason why the great Turtles in the far-away Waters of the World are so much bigger than their brothers and sisters here, and have so many marks on their shells, where the arrows glanced across the shield of their great grandfather. For old Etawa was so proud after he had been the great master of ceremonies that he despised his old pond, and went off to seek a new home in the Western Waters of the World, and his grandchildren never grew any bigger after he went away, and their descendants are just as small as they were.

And thus shortens my story.

THE REVENGE OF THE TWO BROTHERS ON THE HÁWIKUHKWE, OR THE TWO LITTLE ONES' AND THEIR TURKEYS
(THE ORIGIN OF THE PRIESTS AND CHIEFS OF THE DANCE OF VICTORY)
Long, long ago, there lived on Twin Mountain, Áhaiyúta and his younger brother, with their grandmother. They had a large flock of Turkeys of which they were very fond, but were not so attentive to them as they should have been. Said the grandmother to the boys, late one morning: "Let your poor Turkeys out, for they will starve, poor birds, if you do not let them out oftener."

"But they will run away, grandmother," said the two boys, who did not fancy herding them much of the time.

"Why should they run away?" asked the vexed grandmother, who had a sorry enough time managing the two heedless boys. "Rest assured they will come back when roosting-time comes, for such is their custom."

So the Twain ran down and reluctantly let their Turkeys go. The Turkeys were many-dirty old hens, piping, long-legged youngsters, and noisy old

[1. This term refers to the two Gods of War, Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma, who, as has been seen in previous tales, were accounted immortal twin youths of small size.]

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cocks; but they were all more noisy when they were let out, and not long was it before they were straying far beyond the border of woods and toward Háwikuh.

Not long after noon the flock of Turkeys strolled, gobbling and chirping, into the valley north of Háwikuh[1] where many of the people of that pueblo had corn-fields. Some young men who were resting from their hoeing heard the calls of the Turkeys, and, starting up, saw across the valley a larger flock than they had ever been wont to find. Of course they were crazy. They started up and ran as fast as they could toward the pueblo, calling out as they went what they had discovered, so that all the people in the fields began to gather in. As soon as they came within the pueblo, they sought out the Priests of the Bow and told them what they had discovered.

Very quickly ran the priests to the tops of the houses, and they began to call out to their people: "Ye we would this day make wise, for our sons tell us of many Turkeys in the valley over the hill; so hasten ye to gather together good bows and arrows, boomerangs, and strings, that ye may be made happy and add unto your flocks and make more plentiful the plumes in your feather boxes."

In a very short time the people were rushing out of their doorways all prepared for the chase,

[1. Háwikuh, or Aguico of the Spaniards, a pueblo now in ruins across the valley northwestward from Ojo Caliente, the southwestern farming town of the Zuñis.]

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and they ran after the young men and leaders as though in a race of the kicked stick.

Now, the sage-bushes and grasses grow tall to this day in the valley north of Háwikuh, and so they grew in the days long, long ago that I tell of. It thus happened that the poor Turkeys who were racing after grasshoppers, and peeping, and calling, and gobbling, did not know that the Háwikuh people were after them until they heard some old hens calling out in alarm from behind. Even then they were unable to get away, for the people were around them shouting and hurling crooked sticks, and shooting sharp arrows at them in all directions. Soon they began to fall on every side, especially the long-legged young ones, who so tangled their legs in the grasses that they could not keep up with their mothers, and were easily overtaken by the hunters of Háwikuh; and the old hens who stayed behind to look after the young ones were no better, and the cocks who stayed back to look after the old hens were even worse off, for the people sought them most because their feathers were so much brighter.

So it happened in a very short time that more than half the flock were killed and others were falling when a half-grown Long-leg started as fast as he could alone toward Twin Mountain.

It was growing late, and Áhaiyúta and his younger brother and their old grandmother were on top of their house shading their eyes and watching for the return of the Turkeys, when they saw the solitary young Long-leg coming, all out of

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breath and his wings dragging, over the hill below Master Cañon.

"Ha!" said the younger brother; "look! there comes a Long-legs,--and what is he shouting?--Jump up, brother, jump up! Do you hear that?"

"I-wo-loh-kia-a-a-a!" called the Turkey, so that they could just hear him; and as that means "Murder! Murder!" you may think to yourself how much they were excited; but they were not so much alarmed as the old grandmother, "for," said they, one to the other, "it is nothing but a youngster, anyway, and they are always more scared than the old ones."

Nevertheless, they hastened down to meet him, and as they approached they saw that he was terribly frightened, so they anxiously waited until he breathed more easily and would stand still; then they asked: "What is it? Where is it? Why do you come alone, crying 'Murder, Murder!'"

"Alas! my fathers," exclaimed the Turkey.

Alas! I, alone, am left to tell of it; ere I left they were thrown down all around me."

"Who did this?" angrily demanded the boys.

"The people of Háwikuh," exclaimed the Turkey, glancing apprehensively around.

"Ha! we shall yet win back our loss," ejaculated the boys to one another; and then they turned to the Turkey. "Are they all murdered and gone?" they asked.

"Yes, alas! yes; I alone am left," moaned the young Turkey.

"Oh, no!" broke in the elder brother, "' there

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will yet many return, for this is but a Long-leg, and surely when he could save himself others and older ones could." Even then they heard some of the Turkeys calling to one another, out of breath over the low hills. "U-kwa-tchi!" ("Didn't I tell you!") exclaimed Áhaiyúta, and they started toward the mountain.

One by one, or in little bunches, the Turkeys came fleeing in, scared, weary, and bedraggled; and the boys knew by this, and that only a few after all returned, that the Long-leg had not been for nothing taught to fear. They betook themselves to their house. There they sat down to eat with their grandmother, and after the eating was finished, they poked little sticks into the blazing fire on the hearth, and cried out to their grandmother: "Tomorrow, grandmother, we will gather fagots."

"Foolish, foolish boys!" croned the old grandmother.

"Aye, tomorrow we will gather sprouts. Where do they grow thickest and straightest, grandmother?"

"Now, you boys had better let sprouts and war alone," retorted the grandmother.

"But we must win back our losing," cried the boys, with so much vehemence that the grandmother only shook her head and exclaimed: "A-ti-ki! (" Blood!") Strange creatures, my grandchildren, both!" whereupon the two boys poked one the other and laughed.

"Well," added the grandmother, "I have warned

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you; now act your own thoughts";--and the boys looked at her as earnestly as though they knew nothing of what she would say. "Fine warriors, indeed, who do not know where to look for arrow-sticks! But if you will go sprouting, why, over there in the Rain-pond Basin are plenty of sprouts, and then north on Scale Ridge grow more, and over in Oak Cañon are fine oak-sprouts, more than ten boys like you could carry, and above here around Great Mountain are other kinds, and everywhere grow sprouts enough, if people weren't beasts passing understanding; and, what's more, I could tell you boys something to your advantage if you would ever listen to your old grandmother, but--"

"What is it? What is it?" interrupted the boys excitedly, just as if they knew nothing of what she would say.

"Why, over there by the Rain-pond Basin lives your grandfather--"

"Who's that? Who's that?" interrupted the boys again.

"I've a mind not to tell you, you shameless little beasts, another word," jerked out the old grandmother, sucking her lips as if they were marrowbones, and digging into the pudding she was stirring as though it were alive enough to be killed,--"just as though I were not telling you as fast as I could; and, besides, anything but little beasts would know their grandfather--why, the Rainbow-worm, of course!"[1]

[1. One of the "measuring-worms" which is named the rainbow, on account of his streaked back and habit of bending double when travelling.]

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The Rainbow-worm our grandfather, indeed!" persisted the boys; and they would have said more had not their grandmother, getting cross, raised the pudding-stick at them, and bid them "shut up!" So they subsided, and the old woman continued: "Yes, your grandfather, and for shame! You may sit there and giggle all you please, but your grandfather the Rainbow-worm is a great warrior, I can tell you, and if you boys will go sprouting, why, I can tell you, you will fare but with poverty the day after, if you do not get him to help you, that's all!"

"Indeed," replied the boys, quite respectfully.

"Yes, that I tell you; and, moresoever, over there beyond at the wood border, in a pond, is your other grandfather, and he is a great warrior, too."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the boys, as though they did not know that already, also.

"Yes, and you must go to see him, too; for you can't get along without him any more than without the other. Now, you boys go to sleep, for you will want to get up very early in the morning, and you must go down the path and straight over the little hills to where your grandfathers live, and not up into the Master Cañon to gather your sticks, for if you do you will forget all I've told you. You are creatures who pass comprehension, you two grandchildren of mine."

So the two boys lay down in the corner together under one robe, like a man and his wife, for they did not sleep apart like our boys. But, do you

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know, those two mischievous boys giggled and kicked one another, and kept turning about, just as though they never dreamed of the morning. Then they fell to quarrelling about who could turn over the quicker.

"I can," said the elder brother.

"You can't I can! No, you can 't!"

"Yes, I can, and I'll show you"; and he was about to brace himself for the trial when the old grandmother strode over with her pudding-stick, lifting it in the air, with her usual expression of "Blood! my grandchildren both," when they quieted down and pretended to sleep; but still they kept giggling and trying to pull the cover off each other.

"Stop that gaping and fooling, will you? And go to sleep, you nasty little cubs!" cried the irritated old woman; and laughing outright at their poor old grandmother, they put their arms around each other and fell asleep.

Next morning the sun rose, till he shone straight over the mountain, but still the two boys were asleep. The old grandmother had gone out to water her garden, and now she was sitting on the house-top shading her eyes and looking down the trail she had told the boys to follow, to see them come out of the shadow.

After she had strained her poor old eyes till they watered, she grew impatient: "Did I ever see such boys! Now they've gone and played me

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another trick. They'll rue their pranks some day." Then she thought she would go down and get some mush for breakfast. As she climbed down the ladder, she heard a tremendous snoring. "Ho, hot" exclaimed the old grandmother; and striding across the room she shook the boys soundly. "Get up, get up! you lazy creatures; fine sprouters, you!"

The boys rolled over, rubbed their eyes, and began to stretch.

"Get up, get up! the day is warmed long ago; fine warriors, you!" reiterated the old woman, giving them another shaking.

The boys sat up, stretched, gaped, rubbed their eyes, and scratched their heads--the dirtiest little fellows ever seen--but they were only making believe. Their arms were crusty with dirt, and their hair stood out like down on a wild milkweed after a rain-storm, and yet these boys were the handsomest children that ever lived--only they were fooling their old grandmother, you see.

"You'd better be down at the spring washing your eyes at sunrise, instead of scratching your heads here with the sun shining already down the skyhole"; croaked the old woman.

"What! is the sun out?" cried the boys in mock surprise; but they knew- what time it was as well as the old crone did.

"Out! I should say it was! You boys might as well go to sleep again. A fine bundle of sticks you could get today, with the sun done climbing up already"

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So the boys pretended to be in a great hurry and, grabbing up their bows and quivers, never stopped to half dress nor heeded the old woman's offer of food, but were jumping down the crags like mountain goats before the old woman was up the ladder.

"Atiki!" exclaimed the grandmother; "these beasts that cause meditation!" Then she climbed the terrace and watched and watched and watched; but the boys liked nothing better than to worry their old grandmother, so they ran up Master Cañon and into the woods and so across to Rain-pond Basin, leaving the old woman to look as she would.

"Uhh!" groaned the old woman; "they are down among the rocks playing. Fine warriors, they!" and with this she went back to her cooking.

By-and-by the boys came to the edge of the basin where the pod plant grew. Sure enough, there was the Rainbow-worm, eating leaves as though he were dying of hunger-a great fat fellow, as big as the boys themselves; for long, long ago, in the days I tell you of, the Rainbow-worm was much bigger than he is now.

"Hold on," said the younger brother. "Let's frighten the old fellow."

So they sneaked up until they were close to the grandfather, and then they began to tickle him with a stalk. Amiwili--that was his name--twitched his skin and bit away faster and faster at the leaves, until Áhaiyúta shouted at the top of his voice, "Ha-u-thla!" which made the old man jump and

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turn back so quickly that he would have broken his back had he a back-bone.

"Shoma!" he exclaimed. "It's my grandchildren, is it? I am old and a little deaf, and you frightened me, my boys."

"Did we frighten you, grandfather? That's too bad. Well, never mind; we've come to you for advice."

"What's that, my grandchildren?" looking out of his yellow eyes as though he were very wise, and standing up on his head and tail as though they had been two feet.

"Why, you see," said the boys "we had a big drove of Turkeys, and we let them out to feed yesterday, but the fools got too near Háwikuh and the people there killed many, many of them; so we have decided to get back our winnings and even the game with them, the shameless beasts!"

"Ah ha!" exclaimed old Amiwili. "Very well!" and he lay down on his belly and lifted his head into the air like a man resting on his elbows. "Ah ha!" said he, with a wag of his head and a squint of his goggle. "Ah ha! Very well! I'll show them that they are not to treat my grandchildren like that. I'm a warrior, every direction of me--and there are a great many directions when I get angry, now, I can tell you! I'm just made to use up life," said he, with another swagger of his head.

"Listen to that!" said Mátsailéma to his brother.

"To use up life, that's what I'm for," added

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the old man, with emphasis; "I'll show the Háwikuhkwe!"

"Will you come to the council?" asked the two boys.

"Shuathla," swaggered the old man--which is a very old-fashioned word that our grandfathers used when they said: "Go ye but before me."

So the boys skipped over to the pool at the wood border. There was their old grandfather, the Turtle, with his eyes squinted up, paddling round in the scum, and stretching his long neck up to bite off the heads of the water-rushes.

"Let's have some fun with the old Shield-back," said the boys to one another. "just you hold a moment, brother elder," said Mátsailéma as he fitted an arrow to the string and drew it clean to the point. Tsi-i-i-i thle-e-e! sang the arrow as it struck the back of the old Turtle; and although he was as big as the Turtles in the big Waters of the World now are, the force and fright ducked him under the scum like a chip, and he came up with his eyes slimy and his mouth full of spittle, and his legs flying round too fast to be counted. When he spied the two boys, he cursed them harder than their grandmother did, but they hardly heard him, for their arrow glanced upward from his back and came down so straight that they had to run for their lives. "Atiki! troublesome little beasts, who never knew what shame nor dignity was!" exclaimed the old fellow.

"Don't be angry with us, grandpa," said the boys. "You must be deaf, for we called and

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called to you, but you only paddled round and ate rushes; so we thought we would fire an arrow at you, for you know we couldn't get at you."

"Oh, that's it! Well, what may my grandchildren be thinking of, in thus coming to see me? It cannot be for nothing," reflected the old man, as he twisted his head up toward them and pushed the scum with his tail.

"Quite true, grandfather; we've started out sprouting, and had to come to our grandfather for advice."

"Why, what is it then?" queried the old Shield-back.

"You see, we have a flock of Turkeys--"

"Yes, I know," interrupted the old man, "for they came down here to drink yesterday and broke my morning nap with their 'quit quit quittings!'"

"Well," resumed the boys, "they went toward the Háwikuhkwe, and the shameless beasts, that they are, turned out and killed very nearly all of them, and we're going to even matters with them; that's why we are out sprouting."

"Ah ha!" cried the old man, paddling up nearer to the bank. "Good! Well, that's right, my grandchildren; you show that you are the wise boys that you are to come to me. I'm a great warrior, I am, for though I have neither bow nor arrow, yet the more my enemies have, the worse for themselves, that's all. You two just wait until tomorrow," and he stretched his head out until it looked as though he kept a snake in his shell.

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"Will you help us?" asked the boys. (They knew very well he would like nothing better.)

"Of course, my grandchildren."

"Will you come to the council?"

"Of course, my grandchildren two. How many will be there?" called the old fellow.

"The house shall be as full as a full stomach," retorted the boys, jousting each other.

"Thluathlá!" gruffly said Etawa, for that was the Turtle's name.

So the boys started for Oak-wood Canon, and, arrived there, soon had a large bundle of branches cut down with their big flint knives, and four stout, dry oak-sticks. They shouldered their "sprouts" and started home, and, although they had bundles big enough to almost hide them, they trotted along as though they had nothing. On their way they picked up a lot of obsidian, and went fast enough until they were near their home, and then they were "very tired"--so tired that the old grandmother, when she caught sight of them, pitied them, and hurried down to stir some mush for them. She buried some corn-cakes in the ashes, too, and roasted some prairie-dogs in the same way; so that when those two lying little rascals came up and seemed so worn-out, she hurried so fast to get their food ready that it made her sinews twitch.

When the boys had eaten all they could and cracked a few prairie-dog bones, they fell to breaking the sprouts. They worked with their stone chips very fast, and soon had barked all they

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wanted. These they straightened by passing them through their horns I and placed them before the fire. While the shafts were drying, they broke up the obsidian, and. laying chips of it on a stone covered with buckskin, quickly fashioned them into sharp arrow-heads with the points of other stones, and these they fastened to the ends of the shafts, placing feathers of the eagle on the other ends, until they had made enough for four big bundles. Then they made a bow of each of the four oak-sticks, and stood them up to dry against the wall.

As it grew dark they heard something like a dry leaf in a little wind.

"Ah said one to the other," our grandfather comes"; and sure enough presently Amiwili poked his yellow eyes in at the door, but quickly drew back again.

"Kutchi!" said he, "your fire is fearful; it scares me!"

"The grandfather cometh!" exclaimed the boys. "Come in; sit down."

"Very well. Ah! you are stretching shafts, are you?" said the old Worm, crawling around behind the boys and into the darkest corner he could find.

"Yes," replied they. "Why do you not come out into the light, grandpa?"

[1. Fragments of mountain-sheep horn are used to this day by the Zuñis for the same purpose. They are flattened by heat and perforated with holes of varying size. By introducing the shaft to be straightened, and rubbing with a twisting motion the inner sides of the crooked portions, they are gradually straightened out, afterward to be straightened by hand from time to time as they dry before the fire.]

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"Kutchi! I fear the fire; it hurts my eyes, and makes me feel as the sun does after a rain-storm and I have no leaves to crawl into."

"Very well," said the boys. "Grandmother, spread a robe for him in the corner." Then they busied themselves straightening some of the arrows and trying their bows. just as they were pulling one toward the entrance way, they heard old Etawa thumping along, and immediately the old fellow called out: "Hold on; don't thump me against one of those sticks of yours; they jar a fellow so!"

"Oh, it 's you, is it, grandfather? Well, we 're only trying our new bows; come in and sit down." So the old fellow bumped along in and took his place by the fire, for he did not care whether it was hot or cold.

"Are the councillors here?" asked he, wagging his head around.

"Why, certainly," said the two boys; "and now our council is so full we had better proceed to discuss what we had better do."

When the old Turtle discovered that the boys had been playing him a joke, he was vexed, but he didn't show it. "Amiwili here?" asked he. "Tchukwe! We four will teach those Háwikuhkwe!"

"Yes, indeed!" croaked the Rainbow-worm.

"Well," said the boys, "at daybreak tomorrow morning, before it is light, we shall start for Háwikuh-town."

"Very well," responded Amiwili. "Come to my place first, and let me know when you start."

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And," added Etawa, "come to my place next and let me know. When you boys get to Háwikuh and alarm the people, if they get too thick for you, come back to my house as fast as you can, and you, Mátsailéma, take me up on your back. Then you two run toward your other grandfather's house. I'll show these Háwikuhkwe that I can waste life as much as anybody, even if I have no arrows to shoot at them."

"Yes," added the Rainbow-worm, "and when you come up to my house, just run past me and I'll take care of the rest of them. I'm made to use up life, I am," swaggered he.

"And I," boasted the old Turtle. "Come, brother, let us be going, for we have a long way to travel, and our legs are short." So, after feasting, the two started away.

As soon as they had gone, the two boys went to their corner and lay down to rest, first filling their quivers with arrows, and laying their water-shield[1] out on the floor. They were presently quiet, and then began to snore; so their old grandmother went into another room and brought out a new bowl which she filled with water. Then she retired into the room again, and when she came out she was dressed in beautiful embroidered mantles and

[1. The kia-al-lan, or water-shield, is represented in modern times by a beautiful netting of white cotton threads strung on a round hoop, with a downy plume suspended from the center. This, with the dealings of Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma with arrows of lightning, and the simile of their father the Sun, leaves little doubt that they are, in common with mystic creations of the Aryans, representatives of natural phenomena or their agents. This is even more closely suggested by the sequel.]

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skirts and decorated with precious ornaments of shell and turquoise.

The noise she made awoke Áhaiyúta, who punched his younger brother, and said: "Wake up, wake up! Here 's grandmother dressed as though she were going to a dance!"

Then the younger brother raised his voice to a sharp whisper (they knew perfectly well what the old grandmother was intending to do) What for?"

"Here!" said the old woman, turning toward the bed. "Go to sleep! What are you never-weary little beasts doing now? For shame! You pretend you are going out to war tomorrow!"

"Why are you dressed so, grandmother?" ventured the younger.

"What should I be dressed for but to make medicine for you two? Now, mind, you must not watch me. I shall make the medicine and place it in these two cane tubes, and you must shoot them into the middle of the plaza of Háwikuh as soon as you get there. That will make the people like women; for the canes will break and make the medicine fly about like mist, and whomsoever gets his skin wet by it, will become no more of a warrior than a woman. Go to sleep, I say, you pests!"

But the boys had no intention of sleeping. To be sure, they stretched themselves out and slyly laid their arms across their eyes. The old grandmother did not notice this at first. She began to wash her arms in the bowl of water. Then she

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rubbed them so hard that the yepna ("substance of flesh") was rolled off in little lumps and fell into the water. This she began to mix carefully with the water, when Áhaiyúta whispered to the other: "Brother younger, just look! Old grandmother's arms look as bright as a young girl's. Look, look!" said he, still louder, for the other had already begun to giggle; but when the old woman turned to talk sharply at them, they turned over, the rascals, as dutifully as though they had never joked with their poor old grandmother. Soon they were indeed sleeping.

Then the grandmother proceeded to fill the canes with the fluid, and then she fastened these to the ends of two good arrows. "There!" she exclaimed, with a sigh; and after she had chanted an incantation over the canes, she laid some food near the boys and softly left the room, to sleep.

The boys never minded the things they had to do in the morning, but slept soundly until the coming of day, when they arose, took their bows and quivers, knives, war-clubs, arrows, and water-shield, and quietly stole away.

It was not long ere they approached the house of Amiwili. He was fairly gorging the leaves of all the lizard plants he could lay hold of, and already looked so full that he must have felt like a ball. But he munched away so busily that he wouldn't have looked at the boys had it been light enough.

"How did our grandfather come unto the morning?" asked they.

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"Thluathlá!" ("Get out!") was all the old Worm vouchsafed them between his cuds; and they sped on.

Soon they reached the home of the old Turtle. This old grandfather was more leisurely. "You will return at the height of the sun," said he. "Now mind what I told you last night. I'll wait right here on the bank for you."

"Very well," laughed the boys, for little they cared that they were on the war-path.

By-and-by they neared the town of Háwikuh. It was twilight, for the morning star was high. The boys sat down a moment and sang an incantation,--the same our fathers and children, the Ápithlan Shíwani, sing now. Then the younger brother ran round the pueblo to scout. Two or three people were getting up, as he could see, for nearly everybody slept on the roofs, it was so warm.

"Iwolohkia-a-a!" cried he, at the top of his voice; and as the people were rousing he drew one of the cane arrows full length in his bow, and so straight and high did he shoot, that it fell thl-i-i-i-i! into the middle of the plaza, splitting and scattering medicine-water in every direction, so that the people all exclaimed, as they rubbed their eyes: "Ho! it is raining, and yet the sky is clear! And didn't some one cry 'Murder, murder!'"

When Áhaiyúta's arrow struck, it scattered more medicine-water upon them, until they thought they must be dreaming of rain; but just then Mátsailéma shouted, "Ho-o-o! Murder!" again,

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and everybody started to hunt bows and arrows. Then the boy ran to the hiding-place of his brother in the grass on the trail toward the wood border, and just as he got there, some of the people who were shouting and gabbling to one another ran out to see him.

"Ha!" they shouted, "there they are, on the northern trail."

So the Háwikuhkwe all poured down toward them, but when they arrived there they found no enemy. While the people were looking and running about, tsok tsok, and tsok tsok, and tsok tsok, the arrows of Áhaiyúta, and Mátsailéma struck the nearest ones, for they had crawled along the trail and were waiting in the grass. They never missed. Every man they struck fell, but many, many came on, and when these saw that there were only two, their faces were all the more to the front with haste. Still the two boys shot, shot, shot at them until many were killed or wounded before the remainder decided to flee.

"Come, brother, my arrows are gone," said the younger brother. "Quick! put on the water-shield, and let us be off!" Now, the people were gaining on them faster and faster, but Áhaiyúta threw water like thick rain from his shield strapped over his back, so that the enemies' bow-strings loosened, and they had to stop to tighten them again and again.

Whenever the Háwikuhkwe pressed them too closely, the water-shield sprinkled them so thoroughly that when they nocked an arrow the sinew

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bow-string stretched like gum, and all they could do was to stop and tighten their bow-strings again. Thus the boys were able to near the home of their grandfather, the big Turtle, now and then shooting at the leaders with their warring arrows and rarely missing their marks.

But as they came near, the people were gathering more and more thickly in their rear, so that Mátsailéma barely had time to take his grandfather--who was waiting on the bank of the pond--upon his back.

"Now, run you along in front and we'll follow behind," said old Etawa, as he put one paw over the left shoulder and the other under the right arm, and clasped his legs tightly around the loins of Mátsailéma so as to hug close to his back.

"Grandfather, kutchi! You are as heavy as a rock and as hard as one, too," said the younger brother. How can I dodge those stinging beasts?

"That 's all the better for you," said the old Turtle, loosening his grip a little; "take it easy."

'They're coming! They're coming!" shouted Áhaiyúta from ahead. "Hurry, hurry, brother younger; hurry!" But Mátsailéma couldn't get along any faster than he could.

Presently the old Turtle glanced around and saw that the people were gaining on them and already drawing their bows. "Duck your head down and never mind them. Now, you'll see what I can do!" said he, pulling into his shell.

Thle-e-e, thle-thle-thle-e-e, rattled the arrows

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against old Etawa's shell, and the warriors were already shouting, "Ho-o-o-awiyeishikia!"--which was their cry of victory,--when they began to cry out in other tones, for tsuiya! their arrows glanced from old Turtle's shell and struck themselves, so that they dropped in every direction. "Terror and blood! but those beings can shoot fast and hard!" shouted they to one another, but they kept pelting away harder and faster, only to hit one another with the glancing arrows.

"Hold!" cried one in advance of the others. "Head them off! Head them off! We're only shooting ourselves against that black shield of theirs, and the other loosens our bow-strings."

But just then Áhaiyúta reached the home of his other grandfather, Amiwili. Behold! he was all swollen up with food and could hardly move--only wag his head back and forth.

"Are you coming?" groaned the old fellow.

"Quick, get out of the way, all of you! Quick, quick!"

Áhaiyúta jumped out of the way just as Mátsailéma cried out: "Ha hua! I can run no farther; I must drop you, grandfather,"--but he saw Áhaiyúta jump to one side, so he followed, too.

Old Amiwili reared himself and, opening his mouth, waah! weeh! right and left he threw the lizard leaves he had been eating, until the Háwikuhkwe were blinded and suffocated by them, and, dropping their bows and weapons, began to clutch their eyes from blindness and pain. And old Amiwili coughed and coughed till he had blown nearly all

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his substance away, and there was nothing left of him but a worm no bigger than your middle finger.

"Drop me and make your winnings," cried the old Turtle. "I guess I can take care of myself," he chuckled from the inside of his shell; and it was short work for the boys to cast down all their enemies whom Amiwili had blown upon, and the others fled terrified toward Háwikuh.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the two boys as they began to take off the scalps of the Háwikuhkwe. "These caps are better than half a flock of Turkeys."

"Who'll proclaim our victory to our people?" said they, suddenly stopping; and one would have thought they belonged to a big village and a great tribe instead of to a lone house on top of Twin Mountain, with a single old granny in it; but then that was their way, you know.

"I will! I will!" cried the old Turtle, as he waddled off toward Twin Mountain and left the boys to skin scalps.

When he came to the top of the low hill south of Master Cañon, he stuck a stick up in the air and shouted.

"Hoo-o! Hawanawi-i-i-i!" which is the shout of victory; and, not seeing the old woman, he cried out two or three times.

"Hoo-o! Iwolohkia-a-a!" which, as you know, means "Murder! Murder!" The old woman heard it and was frightened. She threw an old robe over her shoulders, and, grabbing up the fire-poker, started down as fast as her limping old limbs

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would let her, and nearly tumbled over when she heard old Etawa shout again, "Iwolohkia!"

"Ha!" said she; "I'll teach the shameless Turkey killers, if I am an old woman;" and she shook her fire-poker in the air until she came up to where the old Turtle was waiting.

Here, just as she came near, the old Turtle pretended not to see her, but stood up on his legs, and, holding his pole with one hand, cried out "Hoo-o! Hawanawi-i-i-i!" which was the shout of victory, as I told you before.

"What is it?" cried the old woman, as she limped along up and said: "Ah! ahi!" ("My poor old legs!")

"Victory!" said the proud Turtle, scarcely deigning to look at her.

Who has this day renewed himself?" she inquired.

"Thy grandchildren," answered the old Turtle.

"Have they won?" asked the old woman, as she said: "Thanks this day!"

"Many caps," replied the Turtle.

"Will they celebrate?"

"Yes."

"Who will purify and pass them?" asked the granny.

"Why, you will."

"Who will bathe the scalps?

"Why, I will."

[1. The ridiculousness of the dialogue which follows may readily be understood when it is explained that each office in the celebration of victory has to be performed by a distinct individual of specified clans according to the function.]

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Who will swing the scalps round the pueblo?"

"Why, you will."

"Who will adopt them?"

"Why, you will."

"Who will bring out the feast?

"Why, you will."

"Who will be the priest of initiation?

"Why, I will."

"Who will be the song-master?"

"Why, I will."

"Who will be the dancers?"

"Why, I will."

"Who will draw the arrows and sacrifice them?"

"Why, I will."

"Who will strive for the sacrificed arrows?"

"Why, I will."

"Who will lead the dance of victory?"

"Why, I will."

"Who will be the dancers?"

"Why, I will."

"Who will go to get the women to join the dance?"

"Why, I will."

"What women will dance?"

"Why, you will."

"ho will take them to preside at the feast of their relatives-in-law?"

"Why, you will."

"Who will be their relatives-in-law?"

"Why, you will."

"Who will be the priests of their Father Society?"

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"Why, I will."

And they might have talked that way till sunset had not the voices of the two boys, singing the song of victory, been heard coming over the hill. There they were, coming with two great strings of scalps as big as a bunch of buckskins.

"Oh! poor me! How shall I swing all those scalps round the pueblo?" groaned the poor old woman as she limped off to dress for the ceremony.

"Why, swing them," answered the old Turtle, as he stretched himself up with the importance of being master of ceremonies.

So the boys brought the scalps up and the old Turtle strung them thickly on a long pole.

So day after day they danced and sang, to add strands to the width of the boys' badges. And the old Turtle was master-priest of ceremonies and people, low priest, song-master, and dancers; sacrificer of arrows and striver after the arrows. He would beat the drum and sing a little, then run and dance out the measure; but it was very hard work.

And the old woman was mother of the children and sisters, and their clan, and somebody's else clan, matron of ceremonials, and maidens of ceremonials-all at the same time;--but it was very hard work, consequently they didn't get along very well.

That's the reason why today we have so many song-masters and singers, dance leaders and dancers, priests and common people, father clans and mother clans, in the great Ceremony of Victory.

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Thus it happened with Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma and their old grandmother, and their grandfathers the Rainbow-worm and the old Turtle. That is the reason why rainbow-worms are no bigger than your finger now, because their great grandfather blew all his substance away at the Háwikuhkwe. That's the reason why the great Turtles in the far-away Waters of the World are so much bigger than their brothers and sisters here, and have so many marks on their shells, where the arrows glanced across the shield of their great grandfather. For old Etawa was so proud after he had been the great master of ceremonies that he despised his old pond, and went off to seek a new home in the Western Waters of the World, and his grandchildren never grew any bigger after he went away, and their descendants are just as small as they were.

And thus shortens my story.

? I tell you I am handsome! Now, let's have another dance!" And again he sang at the top of his wheezing voice, and pranced

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round on his crooked hind legs, with his fine garments fluttering.

But Great Kingfisher, with wings drooping and beak gaped down at the corners,--as though being hungry he had tried to catch a fish and hadn't caught him,--took his way back to the council; and he said to the people there: "No use! I failed utterly. As I said before, he is a crafty, keen-sighted old fellow. What more have I to say?" He made his adieus, and took his way back to the Hill of the Kingfisher.

Again the people talked with one another and considered; and at last said some: "Inasmuch as he has failed, let us send for our grandfather, Great Eagle. He, of all living creatures with wings, is swiftest and keenest of sight, strong of grasp, hooked of beak, whatever getting holding, and getting whatever he will."

They sent for the Eagle. He came, and when made acquainted with their wishes turned quickly, and said, in bidding them adieu: "I think that possibly I can succeed, though surely, as my brother has said, Old Tarantula is a crafty, keen-sighted creature. I will do my best."

Early the next morning he took his way, before sunrise, to the peak of the Mountain of the Badgers, a long distance away from Ak'yapaatch-ella, but still as no distance to the Eagle. There he stood, with his head raised to the winds, turning first one eye, then the other, on the entrance of Old Tarantula's den, until Old Tarantula again thrust out his woolly nose, as might have been expected. He

{p. 354}

discovered the Eagle, and was just shouting "Ho, skulker, skulking!" when the Eagle swept like a singing stone loosed from the sling straight at the head of Old Tarantula. But his wings hissed and buzzed past the hole harmlessly, and his crooked talons reached down into the dark, clutching nothing save one of the plumes in Old Tarantula's head-dress. Even this he failed to bring away.

The Old Tarantula tumbled headlong into his lower room, and exclaimed: "Ha, ha! Goodness save us! What a startling he gave me! But he didn't get me! No, he didn't get me! Let's have a dance! Jig it down! What a fine fellow I am!" And he began to prance about, and jig and sing as he had sung before:

Ohatchik'ya ti Tákwà,
Ai yaa Tákwà,
Ohatchik'ya lii Tákwà,
Ohatchik'ya lii Tákwà,
Ai yaa Tákwà!
Ai yaa Tákwà!
Tákwà, Tákwà!

As soon as he paused for breath, he glanced askance at his fluttering bright garments and cried out: "Ho! what a handsome fellow I am! How finely dressed I am! Let's have another dance!" And again he danced and sang, all by himself, admiring himself, answering his own questions, and watching his own movements. But Great Eagle, crest-fallen and shame-smitten, took his way to the place of the council, reported his failure, and made his adieu.

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Then again the people considered, and the old ones decided to send for Hatchutsanona (the Lesser Falcon), whose plumage is hard and smooth and speckled, gray and brown, like the rocks and sagebrush, and who, being swift as the Kingfisher, and strong as the Eagle, and small, is not only able to fly where other birds fly, but can penetrate the closest thicket when seeking his prey, for trimmed he is like a well-feathered arrow. They sent for him; he came and, being made acquainted with the facts of the case, said he could but try, though he modestly affirmed that when his elder brothers, Great Kingfisher and Great Eagle, had made such efforts, it were well-nigh needless for him to try, and repeated what they had said of the cunning and keenness of sight of Old Tarantula.

But he went early the next morning, and placed himself on the very edge of the high cliff overhanging the columns of rock and looking into the den of Old Tarantula. There, when the sun rose, you could scarcely have seen him, even though near you might have been, for his coat of gray and brown was like the rocks and dry grass around him, and he lay very close to the ground, like an autumn leaf beaten down by the rain. By-and-by Old Tarantula thrust out his rugged face, and turned his eyes in every direction, up and down; then twisted his head from side to side. He saw nothing. He had even poked his head entirely out of his hole, and his shoulders were just visible, when Lesser Falcon bestirred himself, and Old Tarantula, alas! saw him; not in time to wholly save himself,

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however, for Lesser Falcon, with a sweep of his wings like the swirl of a snowdrift, shot into the mouth of Old Tarantula's den, grasped at his head, and brought away with him the macaw plumes of the youth's head-dress.

Down into his den tumbled Old Tarantula, and he sat down and bent himself double with fright and chagrin. He wagged his head to and fro, and sighed: "Alas! alas! my beautiful head-dress; the skulking wretch! My beautiful head-dress; he has taken it from me. What is the use of bothering about a miserable bunch of macaw feathers, anyway? They get dirty, they get bent and broken, moths eat them, they change their color; what is the use of troubling myself about a worthless thing like that? Haven't I still the finest costume in the valley?--handsome leggings and embroidered skirt and mantle, sleeves as pretty as flowers in summer, necklaces worth fifty head-plumes, and earrings worth a handful of such necklaces? Ha, ha! let him away with the old head-plumes! Let's have a dance, and dance her down, old fellow!" said he, talking to himself. And again he skipped about, and sang his tuneless song

Ohatchik'ya ti Tákwà,
Ai yaa Tákwà,
Ohatchik'ya lii Tákwà,
Ohatchik'ya lii Tákwà,
Ai yaa Tákwà!
Ai yaa Tákwà!
Tákwà, Tákwà!

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He admired himself as much as before. "Forsooth," said he; "I could not have seen the head-plume for I would have worn it in the back of my head."

The Lesser Falcon, cursing at his half-luck, took his way back to the council, and, casting the head-plume at the feet of the old men, said: "Alas! my fathers; this is the best I could do, for before I had fairly taken my flight, Old Tarantula discovered me and made into his den. But this I got, and I bring it to you. May others succeed better!"

"Thou hast succeeded exceeding well, for most precious are these plumes from Summerland," said the old priest. "Thanks be to you, this day, my grandfather!" And the Lesser Falcon took his way to the thickets and hillsides.

Then the people said to one another What more is there to be done? We must even have recourse to the Gods, it seems." And they called Swift-runner and said to him: "Of the feathered creatures we have chosen the wisest and swiftest and strongest to aid us; yet they have failed mainly. Therefore, we would even send you to the Gods, for your performance of duty to them has been faithful from morning to morning." So they instructed him to climb to the top of Thunder Mountain and visit the home of the two War-gods, Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma, for in those days they still dwelt on the top of Thunder Mountain with their old grandmother, at the Middle Place of Sacrifice.

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The priests in the town prepared sacrificial plumes and divided their treasures for the Gods, and again calling the young man, presented them to him as their messenger, bidding him bear to the Gods their greetings.

On the morning following, he climbed the steep path and soon neared the dwelling of the Gods and their grandmother. She was on the roof of the house, while the two bad boys--always out of the way when wanted, and never ceasing to play their pranks, as was their little way, you know--were down in the lower rooms. The old grandmother bade the youth to enter, and called out to her grandchildren, the two Gods: "My children, come up, both of you, quickly. A young man has arrived to see you, bringing greetings." So they cast off their playful behavior, and with great gravity came into the room, and looking up to the tall youth, said: "Thou hast come. May it be happily. Sit down. What is it that thou wouldst have? because for nothing no stranger comes to the house of another."

"It is true, this which you say," said the youth reverently, breathing on his hands. "O ye, my fathers! I bring greetings from the fathers of my town below the mountain, and offerings from them."

"It is well thus, my child," replied the Gods.

"And I bring also my burden of trouble, that I may listen to your counsel, and perchance implore your aid," said the youth.

"What is it?" said the Two; and they listened.

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Then the youth related his misfortune, telling how he had been stripped of his clothing by Old Tarantula; how the old ones, gathered in council, had sought the aid, one after another, of the wisest and swiftest of feathered beings, but with little success; how they had at last counselled his coming to them, the fathers of the people in times of difficulty and strife.

"Grandmother!" shouted the younger brother War-god. "Make haste! Make haste, grandmother! Bestir yourself! Grind flour for us. Let it be rock flour!"

The old grandmother gathered some white calcareous sandstone called kéchïpawe. She broke those rocks into fragments and ground them into meal; then reduced them on a finer stone to soft, impalpable powder. She made dough of this with water, and the two Gods, with wonderful skill, molded this dough, as it hardened, into figures of elk-kind,--two deer and two antelope images they made. When they had finished these, they placed them before the youth, and said: "Take these and stand them on the sacrificial rock-shelf or terrace on the southern side of our mountain, with prayer to the gods over them. Return to your home, and tell the old ones what we have directed you to do. Tell them also where we said you should place these beings, for such they will-become upon the rock-shelf; and you should go to greet them in the morning and guide them with you toward the den of Old Tarantula,--Old Tarantula is very fond of hunting; nothing is so

{p. 360}

pleasing to him as to kill anything,--that thereby he may be tempted forth from his hiding-place in his den."

The youth did as he was directed, and when he had placed the figures of the deer and the antelope in a row on the shelf, and reached home, he informed the old ones of the word that had been sent to them.

His father, the old priest-chief, called the warrior priest, and said to him: "It may be possible that Old Tarantula will be tempted forth from his den tomorrow. Would it not be well for us to take the war-path against him?"

"It would, indeed, be well," said the warrior priest. And the priest-chief went to the house-top and called to the people, saying:

"O, ye, my people and children, I instruct ye today! Let the young men and the warriors gather and prepare as for war. By means of the sacred images which have been made by the Two Beloved for our son, Swift-runner, it may be that we shall succeed in tempting Old Tarantula forth from his den tomorrow. Let us be prepared to capture him. Make haste! Make ready! Thus much I instruct ye."

In great haste, as if under the influence of joyful tidings indeed, the people prepared for war, gathered together in great numbers, testing the strength of their bows, and with much racket issued forth from the town under Thunder Mountain, spreading over all the foot-hills. And toward daylight the youth alone took his way toward the sacrificial

{p. 361}

rock-shelf on the side of the mountain. When he arrived there, behold! the two Antelopes and the two Deer were tamely walking about, cropping the grass and tender leaves, and as he approached, they said: "So, here you are."

"Now, this day, behold, my children!" said he in his prayer. "Even for the reason that we have made ye beings, follow my instructions, oh, do! Most wickedly and shamefully has Old Tarantula, living below Ak'yapaatch-ella, robbed me of my sacred fine apparel. I therefore call ye to aid me. Go ye now toward his home, that he may be tempted forth by the sight of ye."

Obediently the Deer and Antelope took their way down the sloping sides of the foot-hills toward Old Tarantula's den. As they neared the den the youth called out from one of the valleys below, "Hu-u-u-u-u-u! Hasten! There go some deer and antelope! Whoever maybe near them, understand, there go some deer and antelope!"

Old Tarantula was talking to himself, as usual, down in his inner room. He heard the faint sound. "Ha!" cried he, "what is this humming? Somebody calling, no doubt." He skipped out toward the doorway just as the young man called the second time. "Ah, ha!" said he. "He says deer are coming, doesn't he? Let us see." And presently, when the young man called the third time, he exclaimed: "That's it! that is what he is calling out. Now for a hunt! I might as well get them as anyone else."

He caught up his bow, slipped the noose over

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the head of it, twanged the string, and started. But just as he was going out of his hole, he said to himself: "Good daylight! this never will do; they will be after me if I go out. Oh, pshaw! Nonsense! they will do nothing of the kind. What does it matter? Haven't I bow and arrows with me?" He leaped out of his hole and started off toward the Deer. As he gained an eminence, he cried: "Ah, ha! sure enough, there they come!" Indeed, he was telling the truth. The Deer still approached, and when the first one came near he drew an arrow strongly and let fly. One of them dropped at once. "Ah, ha!" cried he, "who says I am not a good hunter?" He whipped out another arrow, and fired at the second Deer, which dropped where it had stood. With more exclamations of delight, he shot at the Antelope following, which fell; and then at the last one, which fell as the others had.

"Now," said he, "I suppose I might as well take my meat home. Fine game I have bagged today." He untied the strap which he had brought along and tied together the legs of the first deer he had shot. He stooped down, raised the deer, knelt on the ground and drew the strap over his forehead, and was just about to rise with his burden and make off for his den when, klo-o-o-o-o! he fell down almost crushed under a mass of white rock. "Goodness! what's this? Mercy, but this is startling!" He looked around, but he saw nothing of his game save a shapeless mass of white rock. "Well, I will try this other one," said he to himself. He had no sooner placed the other on his

{p. 363}

back than down it bore him, another mass of white rock! "What can be the matter? The devil must be to pay!" said he. Then he tried the next, with no better success. "Well, there is one left, anyway," said he. He tied the feet of the last one together, and was about to place the strap over his forehead, when he heard a mighty and thundering tread and great shouting and a terrible noise altogether, for the people were already gathering about his den. He made for the mouth of it with all possible speed, but the people were there before him; they closed in upon him, they clutched at his stolen garments, they pulled his earrings out of his ears, slitting his ears in doing so, until he put up his hands and cried: "Death and ashes! Mercy! Mercy! You hurt! You hurt! Don't treat me so! I'll be good hereafter. I'll take the clothing off and give it back to you without making the slightest trouble, if you will let me alone." But the people closed in still more angrily, and pulled him about, buffeted him, tore his clothing from him, until he was left nude and bruised and so maimed that he could hardly move.

Then the old priests gathered around, and said one of them: "It will not be well if we let this beast go as he is; he is too large, too powerful, and too crafty. He has but to think of destruction; forsooth, he destroys. He has but to think of over-reaching; it is accomplished. It will not be well that he should go abroad thus. He must be roasted; and thus only can we rid the world of him as he is."

{p. 364}

So the people assembled and heaped up great quantities of dry firewood; and they drilled fire from a stick, and lighted the mass. Then they cast the struggling Tarantula amid the flames, and he squeaked and sizzled and hissed, and swelled and swelled and swelled, until, with a terrific noise, he burst, and the fragments of his carcass were cast to the uttermost parts of the earth. These parts again took shape as beings not unlike Old Tarantula himself.

Thus it was in the days of the ancients. And therefore today, though crooked are the legs of the tarantula, and his habit of progress backward, still he is distributed throughout the great world. Only he is very, very much smaller than was the Great Tarantula who lived below the two rocky columns of Thunder Mountain.

Thus shortens my story.

ÁTAHSAIA, THE CANNIBAL DEMON
In the days of the ancients, when the children of our forefathers lived in Héshokta (" Town of the Cliffs '), there also lived two beautiful maidens, elder and younger, sisters one to the other, daughters of a master-chief.

One bright morning in summer-time, the elder sister called to the younger, "Háni!"

"What sayest thou?" said the háni.

"The day is bright and the water is warm. Let us go down to the pool and wash our clothes, that we may wear them as if new at the dance to come."

"Ah, yes, sister elder," said the háni; "but these are days when they say the shadows of the rocks and even the sage-bushes lodge unthinkable things, and cause those who walk alone to breathe hard with fear."

"Shtchu!" exclaimed the elder sister derisively. "Younger sisters always are as timid as younger brothers are bad-tempered."

"Ah, well, then; as you will, sister elder. I will not quarrel with your wish, but I fear to go."

"Yaush! Come along, then," said the elder sister; whereupon they gathered their cotton mantles and other garments into bundles, and, taking along a bag of yucca-root, or soap-weed, started together down the steep, crooked path to where the pool lay at the foot of the great mesa.

Now, far above the Town of the Cliffs, among

{p. 366}

the rocks of red-gray and yellow--red in the form of a bowlder-like mountain that looks like a frozen sand-bank--there is a deep cave. You have never seen it? Well! to this day it is called the "Cave of Átahsaia," and there, in the times I tell of, lived Átahsaia himself. Uhh! what an ugly demon he was! His body was as big as the biggest elk's, and his breast was shaggy with hair as stiff as porcupine-quills. His legs and arms were long and brawny,--all covered with speckled scales of black and white. His hair was coarse and snarly as a buffalo's mane, and his eyes were so big and glaring that they popped out of his head like skinned onions. His mouth stretched from one cheek to the other and was filled with crooked fangs as yellow as thrown-away deer-bones. His lips were as red and puffy as peppers, and his face as wrinkled and rough as a piece of burnt buckskin. That was Átahsaia, who in the days of the ancients devoured men and women for his meat, and the children of men for his sweet-bread. His weapons were terrible, too. His finger-nails were as long as the claws of a bear, and in his left hand he carried a bow made of the sapling of a mountain-oak, with two arrows ready drawn for use. And he was never seen without his great flint knife, as broad as a man's thigh and twice as long, which he brandished with his right hand and poked his hair back with, so that his grizzly fore-locks were covered with the blood of those he had slaughtered. He wore over his shoulders whole skins of the mountain lion and bear clasped with buttons of wood.

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Now, although Átahsaia was ugly and could not speak without chattering his teeth, or laugh without barking like a wolf, he was a very polite demon. But, like many ugly and polite people nowadays, he was a great liar.

Átahsaia that morning woke up and stuck his head out of his hole just as the two maidens went down to the spring. He caught sight of them while his eyes travelled below, and he chuckled. Then he muttered, as he gazed at them and saw how young and fine they were: "Ahhali! Yaatchi!" (" Good lunch! Two for a munch!") and howled his war-cry, "Ho-o-o-thlai-a!" till Teshaminkia, the Echo-god, shouted it to the maidens.

"Oh!" exclaimed the háni, clutching the arm of her elder sister; "listen!"

"Ho-o-o-thlai-a!" again roared the demon, and again Teshaminkia.

"Oh, oh! sister elder, what did I tell you

"Why did we come out today!" and both ran away; then stopped to listen. When they heard nothing more, they returned to the spring and went to washing their clothes on some flat stones.

But Átahsaia grabbed up his weapons and began to clamber down the mountain. muttering and chuckling to himself as he went: "Ahhali! Yaatchi!" (" Good lunch! Two for a munch!").

Around the corner of Great Mesa, on the high shelves of which stands the Town of the Cliffs, are two towering buttes called Kwilli-yallon (Twin Mountain). Far up on the top of this mountain there dwelt Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma.

{p. 368}

You don't know who Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma were? Well, I will tell you. They were the twin children of the Sun-father and the Mother Waters of the World. Before men were born to the light, the Sun made love to the Waters of the World, and under his warm, bright glances, there were hatched out of a foam-cup on the face of the Great Ocean, which then covered the earth, two wonderful boys, whom men afterward named Ua nam Atch Píahk'oa ("The Beloved Two who Fell"). The Sun dried away the waters from the high-lands of earth and these Two then delivered men forth from the bowels of our Earth-mother, and guided them eastward toward the home of their father, the Sun. The time came, alas! when war and many strange beings arose to destroy the children of earth, and then the eight Stern Beings changed the hearts of the twins to sawanikia, or the medicine of war. Thenceforth they were known as Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma ("Our Beloved," the "Terrible Two," "Boy-gods of War").

Even though changed, they still guarded our ancients and guided them to the Middle of the World, where we now live. Gifted with hearts of the medicine of war, and with wisdom almost as great as the Sun-father's own, they became the invincible guardians of the Corn-people of Earth, and, with the rainbow for their weapon and thunderbolts for their arrows,--swift lightning-shafts pointed with turquoise,--were the greatest warriors of all in the days of the new. When at last they had conquered most of the enemies of men, they

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taught to a chosen few of their followers the songs, prayers, and orders of a society of warriors who should be called their children, the Priests' of the Bow, and selecting from among them the two wisest, breathed into their nostrils (as they have since breathed into those of their successors) the sawanikia. Since then we make anew the semblance of their being and place them each year at midsun on the top of the Mountain of Thunder, and on the top of the Mountain of the Beloved, that they may know we remember them and that they may guard (as it was said in the days of the ancients they would guard) the Land of Zuñi from sunrise to sunset and cut off the pathways of the enemy.

Well, Áhaiyúta, who is called the elder brother, and Mátsailéma, who is called the younger, were living on the top of Twin Mountain with their old grandmother.

Said the elder to the younger on this same morning: "Brother, let us go out and hunt. It is a fine day. What say you?

"My face is in front of me," said the younger, "and under a roof is no place for men," he added, as he put on his helmet of elk-hide and took a quiver of mountain-lion skin from an antler near the ladder.

"Where are you two boys going now?" shrieked the grandmother through a trap-door from below.

Don't you ever intend to stop worrying me by

[1. Here and hereafter I use this term priest reluctantly, in lack of a better word, but in accordance with Webster's second definition.--F. H. C.]

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going abroad when even the spaces breed fear like thick war?"

"O grandmother," they laughed, as they tightened their bows and straightened their arrows before the fire, "never mind us; we are only going out for a hunt," and before the old woman could climb up to stop them they were gaily skipping down the rocks toward the cliffs below.

Suddenly the younger brother stopped. "Ahh!" said he, "listen, brother! It is the cry of Átahsaia, and the old wretch is surely abroad to cause tears!"

"Yes," replied the elder. "It is Átahsaia, and we must stop him! Come on, come on; quick!"

"Hold, brother, hold! Stiffen your feet right here with patience. He is after the two maidens of Héshokta! I saw them going to the spring as I came down. This day he must die. Is your face to the front?"

"It is; come on," said the elder brother, starting forward.

"Stiffen your feet with patience, I say," again exclaimed the younger brother. "Know you that the old demon comes up the pathway below here? He will not hurt them until he gets them home. You know he is a great liar, and a great flatterer; that is the way the old beast catches people. Now, if we wait here we will surely see them when they come up."

So, after quarrelling a little, the elder brother consented to sit down on a rock which overlooked the pathway and was within bow-shot of the old demon's cave.

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Now, while the girls were washing, Átahsaia ran as fast as his old joints would let him until the two girls heard his mutterings and rattling weapons.

"Something is coming, sister!" cried the younger, and both ran toward the rocks to hide again, but they were too late. The old demon strode around by another way and suddenly, at a turn, came face to face with them, glaring with his bloodshot eyes and waving his great jagged flint knife. But as he neared them he lowered the knife and smiled, straightening himself up and approaching the frightened ones as gently as would a young man.

The poor younger sister clung to the elder one, and sank moaning by her side, for the smile of Átahsaia was as fearful as the scowl of a triumphant enemy, or the laugh of a rattlesnake when he hears any old man tell a lie and thinks he will poison him for it.

"Why do you run, and why do you weep so? asked the old demon. "I know you. I am ugly and old, my pretty maidens, but I am your grandfather and mean you no harm at all. I frightened you only because I felt certain you would run away from me if you could."

"Ah!" faltered the elder sister, immediately getting over her fright. "We did not know you and therefore we were frightened by you. Come, sister, come," said she to the younger. "Brighten your eyes and thoughts, for our grandfather will not hurt us. Don't you see?"

But the younger sister only shook her head and sobbed. Then the demon got angry. "What

are you blubbering about?" he roared, raising his knife and sweeping it wildly through the air. "Do you see this knife? This day I will cut off the light of your life with it if you do not swallow your whimpers!"

"Get up, oh, do get up, háni!" whispered the elder sister, now again frightened herself. "Surely he will not cut us off just now, if we obey him; and is it not well that even for a little time the light of life shine-though it shine through fear and sadness-than be cut off altogether? For who knows where the trails tend that lead through the darkness of the night of death?"

You know, in the speech of the rulers of the world and of our ancients,[1] a man's light was cut off when his life was taken, and when he died he came to the dividing-place of life.

The háni tried to rally herself and rose to her feet, but she still trembled.

"Now, my pretty maidens, my own granddaughters, even," said the old demon once more, as gently as at first, "I am most glad I found you. How good are the gods! for I am a poor, lone old man. All my people are gone." (Here he sighed like the hiss of a wild-cat.) "Yonder above is my home" (pointing over his shoulder), "and as I am a great hunter, plenty of venison is baking in my rear room and more sweet-bread than I can eat. Lo! it makes me homesick to eat alone, and when I saw you and saw how pretty and gentle you were, I thought that it might be you would

[1. One of the figures of speech meaning the gods.]

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throw the light of your favor on me, and go up to my house to share of my abundance and drink from my vessels. Besides, I am so old that only now and then can I get a full jar of water up to my house. So I came as fast as I could to ask you to return and eat with me."

Reassured by his kind speech, the elder sister hastened to say: "Of course, we will go with our grandfather, and if that is all he may want of us, we can soon fill his water-jars, can't we, háni?"

"You are a good girl," said the old demon to the one who had spoken; then, glaring at the younger sister: "Bring that fool along with you and come up; she will not come by herself; she has more bashfulness than sense, and less sense than my knife, because that makes the world more wise by killing off fools."

He led the way and the elder sister followed, dragging along the shrinking háni.

The old demon kept talking in a loud voice as they went up the pathway, telling all sorts of entertaining stories, until, as they neared the rocks where Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma were waiting, the Two heard him and said to one another: "Ahh, they come!"

Then the elder brother jumped up and began to tighten his bow, but the younger brother muttered: "Sit down, won't you, you fool! Átahsaia's ears are like bat-ears, only bigger. Wait now, till I say ready. You know he will not hurt the girls until he gets them out from his house. Look over there in front of his hole. Do

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you see the flat place that leads along to that deep chasm beyond?"

"Yes," replied the elder brother. "But what of that?"

"What but that there he cuts the throats of his captives and casts their bones and heads into the depths of the chasm! Do you see the notch in the stone? That's where he lets their blood flow down, and for that reason no one ever discovers his tracks. Now, stiffen your feet with patience, I say, and we will see what to do when the time comes.

Again they sat and waited. As the old demon and the girls passed along below, the elder brother again started and would have shot had not Mátsailéma held him back. "You fool of a brother elder, but not wiser, No! Do you not know that your arrow is lightning and will kill the maidens as well as the monster?"

Finally, the demon reached the entrance to his cave, and, going in, asked the girls to follow him, laying out two slabs for them to sit on. "Now, sit down, my pretty girls, and I will soon get something for you to eat. You must be hungry." Going to the rear of the cave, he broke open a stone oven, and the steam which arose was certainly delicious and meaty. Soon he brought out two great bowls, big enough to feed a whole dance. One contained meat, the other a mess resembling sweet-bread pudding. "Now, let us eat," said the demon, seating himself opposite, and at once diving his horny fingers and scaly hand half up to the

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wrist in the meat-broth. The elder sister began to take bits of the food to eat it, when the younger made a motion to her, and showed her with horror the bones of a little hand. The sweet-bread was the flesh and bones of little children. Then the two girls only pretended to eat, taking the food out and throwing it down by the side of the bowls.

"Why don't you eat?" demanded the demon, cramming at the same time a huge mouthful of the meat, bones and all, into his wide throat.

"We are eating," said one of the girls.

"Then why do you throw my food away?"

"We are throwing away only the bones."

"Well, the bones are the better part," retorted the demon, taking another huge mouthful, by way of example, big enough to make a grown man's meal. "Oh, yes!" he added; "I forgot that you had baby teeth."

After the meal was finished, the old demon said: "Let us go out and sit down in the sun on my terrace. Perhaps, my pretty maidens, you will comb an old man's hair, for I have no one left to help me now," he sighed, pretending to be very sad. So, showing the girls where to sit down, without waiting for their assent he settled himself in front of them and leaned his head back to have it combed. The two maidens dared not disobey; and now and then they pulled at a long, coarse hair, and then snapped their fingers close to his scalp, which so deceived the old demon that he grunted with satisfaction every time. At last their knees were so tired by his weight upon them

{p. 376}

that they said they were done, and Átahsaia, rising, pretended to be greatly pleased, and thanked them over and over. Then he told them to sit down in front of him, and he would comb their hair as they had combed his, but not to mind if he hurt a little for his fingers were old and stiff. The two girls again dared not disobey, and sat down as he had directed. Uhh! how the old beast grinned and glared and breathed softly between his teeth.

The two brothers had carefully watched everything, the elder one starting up now and then, the younger remaining quiet. Suddenly Mátsailéma sprang up. He caught the shield the Sun-father had given him,--the shield which, though made only of nets and knotted cords, would ward off alike the weapons of the warrior or the magic of the wizard. Holding it aloft, he cried to Áhaiyúta: "Stand ready; the time is come! If I miss him, pierce him with your arrow. Now, then--"

He hurled the shield through the air. Swiftly as a hawk and noiselessly as an owl, it sailed straight over the heads of the maidens and settled between them and the demon's face. The shield was invisible, and the old demon knew not it was there. He leaned over as if to examine the maidens' heads. He opened his great mouth, and, bending yet nearer, made a vicious bite at the elder one.

"Ai, ai! my poor little sister, alas!" with which both fell to sobbing and moaning, and crouched, expecting instantly to be destroyed.

{p. 377}

But the demon's teeth caught in the meshes of the invisible shield, and, howling with vexation, he began struggling to free himself of the encumbrance. Áhaiyúta drew a shaft to the point and let fly. With a thundering noise that rent the rocks, and a rush of strong wind, the shaft blazed through the air and buried itself in the demon's shoulders, piercing him through ere the thunder had half done pealing. Swift as mountain sheep were the leaps and light steps of the brothers, who, bounding to the shelf of rock, drew their war-clubs and soon softened the hard skull of the old demon with them. The younger sister was unharmed save by fright; but the elder sister lay where she had sat, insensible.

"Hold!" cried Mátsailéma, "she was to blame, but then-" Lifting the swooning maiden in his strong little arms, he laid her apart from the others, and, breathing into her nostrils, soon revived her eyes to wisdom.

"This day have we, through the power of sawanikia, seen[1] for our father an enemy of our children, men. A beast that caused unto fatherless children, unto menless women, unto womenless men (who thus became through his evil will), tears and sad thoughts, has this day been looked upon by the Suit and laid low. May the favors of the gods thus meet us ever."

Thus said the two brothers, as they stood over the gasping, still struggling but dying demon; and as they closed their little prayer, the maidens, who

[1. To "see" an enemy signifies, in Zuñi mythology, to take his life.]

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now first saw whom they had to thank for their deliverance, were overwhelmed with gladness, yet shame. They exclaimed, in response to the prayer: "May they, indeed, thus meet you and ourselves!"

Then they breathed upon their hands.

The two brothers now turned toward the girls. "Look ye upon the last enemy of men," said they, "whom this day we have had the power of sawanikia given us to destroy; whom this day the father of all, our father the Sun, has looked upon, whose light of life this day our weapons have cut off; whose path of life this day our father has divided. Not ourselves, but our father has done this deed, through us. Haste to your home in Héshokta and tell your father these things; and tell him, pray, that he must assemble his priests and teach them these our words, for we divide our paths of life henceforth from one another and from the paths of men, no more to mingle save in spirit with the children of men. But we shall depart for our everlasting home in the mountains--the one to the Mountain of Thunder, the other to the Mount of the Beloved--to guard from sunrise to sunset the land of the Corn-priests of Earth, that the foolish among men break not into the Middle Country of Earth and lay it waste. Yet we shall require of our children the plumes wherewith we dress our thoughts, and the forms of our being wherewith men may renew us each year at midsun. Henceforth two stars at morning and evening will be seen, the one going before, the other following, the Sun-father--the one Áhaiyúta, his herald; the other

{p. 379}

Mátsailéma, his guardian; warriors both, and fathers of men. May the trail of life be finished ere divided! Go ye happily hence."

The maidens breathed from the hands of the Twain, and with bowed heads and a prayer of thanks started down the pathway toward the Town of the Cliffs. When they came to their home, the old father asked whence they came. They told the story of their adventure and repeated the words of the Beloved.

The old man bowed his head, and said: "It was Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma!" Then he made a prayer of thanks, and cast abroad on the winds white meal of the seeds of earth and shells from the Great Waters of the World, the pollen of beautiful flowers, and the paints of war.

"It is well!" he said. "Four days hence I will assemble my warriors, and we will cut the plume-sticks, paint and feather them, and place them on high mountains, that through their knowledge and power of medicine our Beloved Two Warriors may take them unto themselves."

Now, when the maidens disappeared among the rocks below, the brothers looked each at the other and laughed. Then they shouted, and Áhaiyúta kicked Átahsaia's ugly carcass till it gurgled, at which the two boys shouted again most hilariously and laughed. "That's what we proposed to do with you, old beast!" they cried out.

"But, brother younger," said Áhaiyúta, "what shall be done with him now?"

"Let's skin him," said Mátsailéma.

{p. 380}

So they set to work and skinned the body from foot to head, as one skins a fawn when one wishes to make a seed-bag. Then they put sticks into the legs and arms, and tied strings to them, and stuffed the body with dry grass and moss; and where they set the thing up against the cliff it looked verily like the living Átahsaia.

"Uhh! what an ugly beast he was!" said Mátsailéma. Then he shouted: "Wahaha, hihiho!" and almost doubled up with laughter. "Won't we have fun with old grandmother, though. Hurry up; let's take care of the rest of him!"

They cut off the head, and Áhaiyúta said to it: "Thou hast been a liar, and told a falsehood for every life thou hast taken in the world; therefore shall thou become a lying star, and each night thy guilt shall be seen of all men throughout the wide world." He twirled the bloody head around once or twice, and cast it with all might into the air. Wa muu! it sped through the spaces into the middle of the sky like a spirt of blood, and now it is a great red star. It rises in summer-time and tells of the coming morning when it is only midnight; hence it is called Mokwanosana (Great Lying Star).

Then Mátsailéma seized the great knife and ripped open the abdomen with one stroke. Grasping the intestines, he tore them out and exclaimed: "Ye have devoured and digested the flesh of men over the whole wide world; therefore ye shall be stretched from one end of the earth to the other, and the children of those ye have wasted will look upon ye every night and will say to one another:

{p. 381}

'Ah, the entrails of him who caused sad thoughts to our grandfathers shine well tonight!' and they will laugh and sneer at ye." Whereupon he slung the whole mass aloft, and tsolo! it stretched from one end of the world to the other, and became the Great Snow-drift of the Skies (Milky Way). Lifting the rest of the carcass, they threw it down into the chasm whither the old demon had thrown so many of his victims, and the rattlesnakes came out and ate of the flesh day after day till their fangs grew yellow with putrid meat, and even now their children's fangs are yellow and poisonous.

"Now, then, for some fun!" shouted Mátsailéma. Do you catch the old bag up and prance around with it a little; and I will run off to see how it looks."

Áhaiyúta caught up the effigy, and, hiding himself behind, pulled at the strings till it looked, of all things thinkable, like the living Átahsaia himself starting out for a hunt, for they threw the lion skins over it and tied the bow in its hand.

"Excellent! Excellent!" exclaimed the boys, and they clapped their hands and wa-ha-ha-ed and ho-ho-ho-ed till they were sore. Then, dragging the skin along, they ran as fast as they could, down to the plain below Twin Mountain.

The Sun was climbing down the western ladder, and their old grandmother had been looking all over the mountains and valleys below to see if the two boys were coming. She had just climbed the ladder and was gazing and fretting and saying: {p. 382} "Oh! those two boys! terrible pests and as hardhearted and as long-winded in having their own way as a turtle is in having his! Now, something has happened to them; I knew it would," when suddenly a frightened scream came up from below.

"Ho-o-o-ta! Ho-o-o-ta! Come quick! Help! Help!" the voice cried, as if in anguish.

"Uhh!" exclaimed the old woman, and she went so fast in her excitement that she tumbled through the trap-door, and then jumped up, scolding and groaning.

She grabbed a poker of piñon, and rushed out of the house. Sure enough, there was poor Mátsailéma running hard and calling again and again for her to hurry down. The old woman hobbled along over the rough path as fast as she could, and until her wind was blowing shorter and shorter, when, suddenly turning around the crags, she caught sight of Áhaiyúta struggling to get away from Átahsaia.

"O ai o! I knew it! I knew it!" cried the old woman; and she ran faster than ever until she came near enough to see that her poor grandson was almost tired out, and that Mátsailéma had lost even his war-club. "Stiffen your feet,--my boys,--wait--a bit," puffed the old woman, and, flying into a passion, she rushed at the effigy and began to pound it with her poker, till the dust fairly smoked out of the dry grass, and the skin doubled up as if it were in pain.

Mátsailéma rolled and kicked in the grass, and

{p. 383}

Áhaiyúta soon had to let the stuffed demon fall down for sheer laughing. But the old woman never ceased. She belabored the demon and cursed his cannibal heart and told him that was what he got for chasing her grandsons, and that, and this, and that, whack! whack! without stopping, until she thought the monster surely must be dead. Then she was about to rest when suddenly the boys pulled the strings, and the demon sprang up before her, seemingly as well as ever. Again the old woman fell to, but her strokes kept getting feebler and feebler, her breath shorter and shorter, until her wind went out and she fell to the ground.

How the boys did laugh and roll on the ground when the old grandmother moaned: "Alas! alas! This day--my day--light is--cut off--and my wind of life--fast going."

The old woman covered her head with her tattered mantle; but when she found that Átahsaia did not move, she raised her eyes and looked through a rent. There were her two grandsons rolling and kicking on the grass and holding their mouths with both hands, their eyes swollen and faces red with laughter. Then she suddenly looked for the demon. There lay the skin, all torn and battered out of shape.

"So ho! you pesky wretches; that's the way you treat me, is it? Well! never again will I help you, never!" she snapped, "nor shall you ever live with me more!" Whereupon the old woman jumped up and hobbled away.

{p. 384}

But little did the brothers care. They laughed till she was far away, and then said one to the other: "It is done!"

Since that time, the grandmother has gone, no one knows where. But Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma are the bright stars of the morning and evening, just in front of and behind the Sun-father himself. Yet their spirits hover over their shrines on Thunder Mountain and the Mount of the Beloved, they say, or linger over the Middle of the World, forever to guide the games and to guard the warriors of the Land of Zuñi. Thus it was in the days of the ancients.

Thus shortens my story.

THE HERMIT MÍTSINA
When all was new, and the gods dwelt in the ancient places, long, long before the time of our ancients, many were the gods-some destined for good and some for evil or for the doing of things beneath understanding. And those of evil intent, so painfully bad were they to become that not in the company and council of the precious beloved of the Kâkâ (the Order of the Sacred Drama) could they be retained.

Thus it happened, in the times of our ancients, long, long ago, that there dwelt all alone in the Cañon of the Pines, southeast of Zuñi, Mítsina the Hermit. Of evil understanding he; therefore it had been said to him (by the gods): "Alone shalt thou dwell, being unwise and evil in thy ways, until thou hast, through much happening, even become worthy to dwell amongst us." Thus it was that Mítsina lived alone in his house in the Cañon of the Pines.

Sometimes when a young man, dressed in very fine apparel (wearing his collars of shell, and turquoise earrings, and other precious things which were plentiful in the days of our ancients), would be out hunting, and chanced to go through the Cañon of the Pines and near to the house of Mítsina, he would hear the sounds of gaming from within; for, being alone, the hermit whiled away his time in playing at the game of sacred arrows (or cane-cards).

{p. 386}

Forever from the ceiling of his house there hung suspended his basket-drum, made of a large wicker bowl, over the mouth of which was stretched tightly a soft buckskin, even like the basket-drums which we use in the playing of cane-cards today, and which you know are suspended with the skin-side downward from the ceilings of the gaming rooms in the topmost houses of our town. Though the one he had was no better than those we have today, save that it was larger and handsomer perhaps, yet he delighted to call it his cloud canopy, bethinking himself of the drum-basket of his former associates, the gods, which is even the rounded sky itself, with the clouds stretched across it. Forever upon the floor of his house there lay spread a great buffalo robe, the skin upward dressed soft and smooth, as white as corn-flour, and painted with the many-colored symbols and counting marks of the game, even as our own. But he delighted to call it his sacred terraced plain,[1] bethinking himself of the robe-spread of the gods, which is even the outspread earth itself, bordered by terraced horizons, and diversified by mountains, valleys, and bright places, which are

[1. The words "terrace," "sacred terrace," "terraced plain" (awithluiane, awithluian-pewine), and the like, wherever they occur, refer to the figurative expression for the earth in the Zuñi rituals addressed to the gods, where they are used as more nearly conforming to the usage of the gods. The symbol of the earth on the sacred altars is a terraced or zigzag figure or decoration, and the same figure appears in their carvings and other ornamental work. The disgraced god Mítsina applied the term to the robe spread out as the bed for his game. It may be stated in further explanation that the country in which the Zuñis have wandered and lived for unnumbered generations, and where they still dwell, is made {footnote p. 387} up largely of mesas, or flat-top mountains or elevations, rising one above another and showing as terraces on the horizon. Beheld at great distances, or in the evening, these mountain terraces are mere silhouettes and serve to exaggerate the zigzag spaces of light between them. As the conventional sacred emblem for the earth is a terrace, outspread or upreaching, as the case may be, so the conventional sacred emblem for the sky is an inverted terrace.

To the gods the whole earth is represented as having seemed so small that they invariably spoke of it as the terraced plain, and in their playing of this game they are supposed to have used it as the bed for the game, as the Zuñi people used the outspread buffalo robe for the purpose.]

{p. 387}

the symbols and game marks whereby the gods themselves count up the score of their game.

Hearing these sounds of the game in passing, the young man would naturally draw near and listen. Though all alone, every time he made a good throw Mítsina would exclaim "Her-r-r-r!" and as the canes struck the skin of the drum-basket above, tcha-le-le, tcha-le-le, it would sound; and ke-le-le they would rattle as they fell on the robe below. "Ha! ha!" old Mítsina would exclaim, as if triumphantly to some opponent in the game, "Kohakwa iyathlokyai!" as much as to say: "Good for you, old fellow! The white-corn symbol fell uppermost!"

"Oh!" the young man would exclaim as he listened. "Oh!"--and, wishing to learn more about the matter, he would stealthily climb up the ladder and peer down through the skyhole. Old Mítsina would catch sight of him, be sure of that, and greet him most cordially, calling to him: "Come in, come in, my fine young fellow, come in; let's have a game!"

Now, he had practised so long that he had

{p. 388}

acquired more skill than anyone else throughout the world-at least among mortals; so that when any of the young men chanced to play with him, he invariably lost, poor fellow! Hanging on the pole along the north side of Mítsina's house were the necklaces, embroidered mantles, and turquoises, and all sorts of treasures which he had won in this way; and as many on the western side, on the southern side as many, and on the eastern side also.

When the young man came in, Mítsina would continue: "My good friend, sit right down over there. Have you your canes today?" If the young man said "Yes," he would say "Ha! very well." Or, if he said "No," "Never mind," Mítsina would say; "here are some," producing a very fine set of polished canes. The young man, being thus pressed, would stake perhaps his necklace or his earrings, and the game would begin. Losing them, he would stake his clothing, his bows and arrows-in fact, everything he had about him. You know how it is with gamesters when they have lost a great deal and wish to get it back again? Well, so it was then. When the young man had lost everything, he would bow his head on his hand, and sit thinking. Then old Mítsina, with a jolly, devil-may-care manner, would say: "Bet your left thigh. I'll put all you have lost and more, too, on that." The young man would say to himself, with a sigh of relief: "What an old fool you are!" and reply: "All right! I will take your bet." Alas! the one thigh he bet is lost; then the

{p. 389}

other goes the same way; then one of his sides and arms; losing which, he bet the other, and so on, until he had bet away his whole body, including his head. Then in utter despair he would exclaim: "Do with me as thou wilt. I am thy slave." And old Mítsina with the same devil-may-care manner would catch him up, take him out to the back of his house and wring his neck that he might not go back and report his losses to his people.

Again, some other well-equipped young man would be passing that way, and hearing the sound made by the solitary player, and being attracted thereby, would be drawn in the same way into the game, would lose everything, and old Mítsina would wring his neck and keep his treasures.

Thus it was in the days of the ancients. Great were the losses of the young men, and many of them perished.

Well, one day little Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma--the War-gods of peace times--who dwelt, as you know, where their shrine now stands on Face Mountain, with their old grandmother,--went out hunting rabbits and prairie-dogs. It chanced that in following the rabbits along the cliffs of a side cañon they came into the Cañon of the Pines, near where the house of Mítsina stood. Presently they heard the sounds of his game. "Hu, hu!" the old fellow would exclaim as he cast his canes into the air. Ke-le-le-le they would rattle as they fell on the skin.

"Uh!" exclaimed Áhaiyúta, the elder. "Brother younger, listen."

{p. 390}

The younger listened. "By my eyes exclaimed he, "it is someone playing at cane-cards. Let's go and have a peep at him." So they climbed the ladder and peered in through the skyhole.

Presently, old Mítsina espied them, and called out: "Ha! my little fellows; glad to see you today! How are you? Come in, come in! I am dying for a game; I was playing here all by myself."

The two little War-gods clambered down the ladder, and old Mítsina placed blankets for them, invited them most cordially to sit down, and asked if they would like to play a game. Nothing loth they, seeing all the fine things hanging, round his room; so out from their girdles they drew their cane-cards, for those, as you know, they always carried with them.

Perhaps I have not told you that even the basket-drum old Mítsina played with was fringed with the handsome long turquoise earrings which he had won, and even under the robe on which he played there were piled one over another, in a great flat heap, the finest of the necklaces gathered from those whom he had defeated in playing and then slain.

"What would you like to put up?" asked the old fellow, pointing around his room--particularly to the basket-drum fringed with turquoises--and lifting the robe and showing just enough of the necklaces underneath it to whet the appetites of the little War-gods.

{p. 391}

"We've nothing fine enough to bet for these things," said they ruefully.

"O ho!" cried Mítsina. "No matter, no matter at all, my boys. Bet your bows and arrows and clothing; if you like, bet everything you have on, and I'll put up that poleful there on the north side of my room."

"Good! good! tell him all right," whispered the younger brother to the elder.

So the elder agreed, chuckling to himself, for it was rarely that a man was found who could beat the little War-gods in a game. And they began their playing. How the turquoises rattled as they threw their canes! How the canes jingled and thumped as they fell on the robe!

The game was merry and long, and well played on both sides; but the poor little War-gods lost. Their countenances fell; but old Mítsina, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, exclaimed: "Oh pshaw! never mind, never mind!"

"Yes," said the two War-gods, but how in the world are we ever going back to our grandmother in this plight?"--glancing down over their bare bodies, for they had bet even the clothing off their backs. "What else can we bet? How can we win back what we have lost?"

"Bet your left thighs," said the old hermit.

They thought a moment, and concluded they would do so. So the game was staked again and begun and the canes rattled merrily; but they lost again. Then old Mítsina suggested that they bet their other thighs. They did so and again lost.

{p. 392}

Then he suggested they should bet their left sides, hoping forthwith to get hold of their hearts, but the young War-gods were crafty. The elder one exclaimed: "All right!" but the younger one said: "Goodness! as for you, you can bet your left side if you want to, but I'll bet my right, for my heart is on my left side, and who ever heard of a man betting away his heart!"

"Just as you like," said Mítsina, "but if you'll bet your bodies up to your necks I will stake all you have lost and all I have besides," said he, looking around on his fine possessions.

Done cried the War-gods. And again they played and again lost. Then they had nothing left but their heads and ears and eyes to bet. Finally they concluded to bet these also, for said they to one another: "What good will our heads do us, even though they be the crown-pieces of our being, without the rest?"

They played again, but the poor fellows lost their heads also. "Alas! alas! do as thou wilt with us," exclaimed the little War-gods, with rueful countenances.

Old Mítsina, locking them up in a small recess of his house, went out and gathered before his front door a great quantity of dry wood. Then he tied the little fellows hand and foot, and laid them near by,--not near enough to burn them up, but near enough so that they would scorch,--and lighted the fire, to have the pleasure of roasting them. When they began to brown and sizzle a little they writhed and howled with pain, but they

{p. 393}

were tough and quite bad, as you know, and this did not kill them.

Who can hide a thing from the eyes of the gods? The elder brothers of these two foolish little War-gods, Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma, those who dwelt on Thunder Mountain, became aware of what was going on. "Come, brother younger," said the elder, strapping on his quiver and taking his bow in hand, "come, let us off to old Mítsina's house and teach him a lesson!" So, in a twinkling they were climbing down the mountain, speeding across the wide valley, and threading their way through the Cañon of the Pines.

Mítsina had grown tired of watching the poor little War-gods and had gone in to have another little game, and there he was pitching his cane-cards and talking to himself, as usual. The two gods hauled their unfortunate brothers away from the fire, and, climbing the ladder, peered in. Mítsina espied them, and as usual invited them in to a game. With as jolly an air as his own they accepted his challenge and sat down. Mítsina offered to bet all his fine things hanging on the north side of the house. "What will you put up, my little fellows?" asked he.

"If you will include those ugly little devils that we saw sizzling before the fire when we came in, we will bet you everything we have with us," said they.

"Good! good! haul them in!" shouted Mítsina.

The War-gods scrambled out of the house, and, by no means gently, dragged their wretched

{p. 394}

little brothers in by the heels and dumped them down on the floor to show their indifference, sat down, and began to play. They bet their weapons, holding up the knife of war which they carried, the point of lightning itself fatal in power,--splitter of mountains and overcomer of demons and men alike.

Old Mítsina, when told of the power of the weapons, became doubtful as to his company, but presently fell to and played with a will. He lost. Then he put up all the rest of his goods hanging on the other side of the room. Again he lost, and again, even the turquoises hanging from the basket-drum, the necklaces under his robe, and the things he played with, and getting wild with excitement, sure that his luck would return, followed out the plan he had so often suggested to others, and bet away his thighs, then his sides and arms, then his head and ears, excepting his eyes, and last of all his very eyes themselves. Each time the young War-gods won. The old gambler let his hands fall by his sides, and dropped his head on his breast, sick with humiliation and chagrin.

"Now, my brother," said the elder to the younger, "what shall we do with this beast?"

"I don't know," said the other. "We can't kill him; yet, if we leave him to go his own way, he will gamble and gamble without ceasing, and make no end of trouble. Suppose we make a good man of him."

"How?" asked the other.

"Pluck out his eyes."

{p. 395}

Capital!" exclaimed the first. So, while one of them held the old fellow down, the other gouged out his eyes, and with pain and horror he utterly forgot in unconsciousness (swooned away).

The two elder War-gods set their younger brothers on their feet, and all four of them joined in clearing out the treasures and magnificent possessions which Mítsina through all these years had won from his victims; and these they took away with them that by their sacred knowledge they might change them into blessings for the faithful of their children among men, and thus return, as it were, what had been lost. Then away they went, leaving old Mítsina still as witless as a dead man, to his fate.

By-and-by the old man came to his senses, and raising himself up, tried to look around, but, forsooth, he could not see.

"What in the world has happened? What a fearful pain I have in my temples said he. What is the matter? Is it night?"

Then gradually his situation came to him. He uttered a groan of pain and sorrow, and, putting out his hand, felt the wall and raised himself by it. Then he crept along, feeling his way to the window, not yet quite certain whether he had been dreaming all this and it was still night, or whether he had really lost everything and been bereft of his eyes by those midgets. When he put his hand into the window, however, he felt the warm sunlight streaming in, and knew that it was still day, and that it was all true.

{p. 396}

In feeling there he chanced to touch a little package of pitch which had been laid in the window. He felt it all over with both hands, but could not quite tell what it was. Then he put it against his cheek, but was still uncertain; then he rubbed it, and smelt of it. "Pitch! pitch! as I live!" said he. "I have often lighted this when it was dark, and been able to see. Now, maybe, if I light it this time, I shall be able to see again." He felt his way all round the room to the fireplace, and after burning his fingers two or three times in feeling for coals, he found a sliver and held it in the coals and ashes until he heard it begin to sputter and crackle. Then he lighted the pitch with it. Eyeless though he was, the fumes from this medicine of the woodlands restored to him a kind of vision. "Good!" cried the old fellow, "I see again!" But when he looked around, he saw nothing as it had been formerly; and his thoughts reverted to the great City of the Gods (Kothluellakwin); and, as it were, he could see the way thither. So he turned toward his door, and with a sigh gave up his old place of abode, relinquished all thought of his possessions, gave up his former bad inclinations, and turned westward toward the City of the Gods and Souls.

As he went along holding his light before him and following it, he sang a mournful song. The Birds, hearing this song, flocked around him, and as he went on singing, exclaimed to one another: "Ha! ha! the old wretch; he has lost his eyes! Served him right! Let's put out his light for him."

{p. 397}

Now, before that time, strange as it may seem, the Eagles and even the Crows were as white as the foam on warring waters. The Eagles were so strong that they thrust the other birds away, and began to pounce down at Mítsina's light, trying to blow it out with their wings. Thluh! thluh! they would flap into the light; but still it would not go out; and they only singed their feathers and blackened their wings and tails with smoke. In looking at one another they saw what sad plight they were in. "Good gracious, brothers!" exclaimed some of them to the others, "we have made a fine mess of our white plumage!" And they gave it up.

Then the Crows rushed in and flapped against the light, but they could not put it out; and although they grew blacker and blacker, they would not give it up. So they became as black as crows are now; and ever since then eagles have been speckled with brown and black, and crows have been black, even to the tips of their beaks. And whenever in the Sacred Drama Dance of our people old Mítsina appears, he sings the doleful song and carries the light of pitch pine. He goes naked, with the exception of a wretched old cloth at his loins; and he wears a mask with deep holes for eyes, blood streaming from them.

Thus shortens my story.

Please Tribo, paraphrase!