Zuni Folktales

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 antennae 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.

“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.

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 Zuni. 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!⁠—

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. “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 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,