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 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, 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 Canyon of the Cedars that he had yellow eyes instead of black ones, which everybody knows Coyotes and all other creatures had at first.
Thus it was in the days of the ancients, and hence to this day coyotes have yellow eyes, and are not always quick to see things.
Thus shortens my story.
The Prairie-Dogs and Their Priest, the Burrowing-Owl
Once, long, long ago, there stood in Prairie-dog Land a large Prairie-dog village. Prairie-dog Land is south of Zuni, 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 rainstorms that had produced such an abundant harvest for them. But still it kept raining, until by-and-by, when they descended to their fields of mitäliko, they found their feet were wet, which they did not like any more than Prairie-dogs like it today.
Now, you know that in some parts of the meadow of Prairie-dog Land are little hollows, in which the water collects when it rains hard. Just in these places were the fields of mitäliko. And still it rained and rained, until finally only the tops of the plants appeared above the waters.
Then the Prairie-dogs began to curse the rain and
