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.
“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 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 Zuni 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 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
