The old ones among the Prairie-dogs, the grandfathers, called a great council; three or four of them came out of their houses, stood up on the mounds in front of their sky-holes, and called out “Wek wek—wek wek—wek wek—wek wek!” in shrill, squeaky voices, so that the women and children in the holes round about exclaimed: “Goodness, gracious! the old ones are calling a council!” And everybody trooped to the council, which was gathered round the base of the Burrowing-owl’s mountain.
“Now,” said the chief spokesman or counsellor, “you see those wretched rainers keep dropping water until our fields of mitäliko are flooded. They ought to know that we are short of leg, and that we can’t go into the lakes to gather food, and here we are starving. Our women are dying, our children are crying, and we can scarcely go from door to door. Now, what is to be done? How can we stop the rain?—that is the question.”
They talked and talked; they devised many plans, which were considered futile, most of them having been tried already. At last a wise old gray-cheeked fellow suggested that it would be well to apply to their grandfather, the Burrowing-owl, who lived in the top of the mountain.
“Hear! hear!” cried the council in one voice—whereupon the old man who had spoken was chosen as messenger to the Burrowing-owl.
He climbed to the top of the mountain, with many a rest, and at last got near the doorway, and sitting down at a respectful distance, raised himself on his haunches, folded his hands across his breast, then cried out: “Wek wek—wek wek!”
The old grandfather Burrowing-owl, not in very good humor, stepped out, blinking his eyes and asked what was the matter. He said: “It isn’t your custom to come up to my house and make such a racket, though true enough it is that I hear your rackets down below. It cannot be for nothing that you come; therefore, what is your message?”
“My grandfather,” said the Prairie-dog, “in council we have considered how to stop the irrepressible rainers; but all of our efforts and devices are quite futile, so that we are forced to apply to you.”
“Ah, indeed,” said the old Owl, scratching the corner of his eye with his claw. “Go down home, and I will see what I can do tomorrow morning. As you all know very well, I am a priest. I will set aside four days for fasting and meditation and sacred labors. Please await the result.”
The old Prairie-dog humbly bade him farewell and departed for his village below.
Next morning the Burrowing-owl said to his wife: “Put on a large quantity of beans, my old one, and cook them well—small beans, of the kind that smell not pleasantly.” He then bade her “Good morning,” and left. He went about for a long time, hunting at the roots of bushes. At last he found one of those ill-smelling Beetles, with its head stuck way down in the midst of the roots. He grabbed him up, notwithstanding the poor creature’s remonstrances, and took him home.
When he arrived there, said he: “My friend, it seems to me you are making a great fuss about this thing, but I am not going to hurt you, except in one way—by the presentation to you of all the food you can eat.”
“Bless me!” said the Tip-beetle, bobbing his head down into the ground and rearing himself into the air. Then he sat down quite relieved and contented.
“Old woman,” said the Burrowing-owl, “lay out a dish of the beans on the floor.” The wife complied. “My friend,” said the Burrowing-owl to the Tip-beetle, “fall to and satisfy yourself.”
The Tip-beetle, with another tip, sat down before the bowl of beans. He ate, and swallowed, and gulped until he had entirely emptied the dish, and began to grow rather full of girth.
“Not yet satisfied?” asked the Owl. “Old woman, lay out another bowl.”
Another large bowl of the bean soup was placed before the Tip-beetle, who likewise gulped and gulped at this, and at last diminished it to nothing. Now, the Tip-beetle by this time looked like a well-blown-up paunch. Still, when the old Owl remarked “Is there left of your capacity?” he replied: “Somewhat; by the favor of a little more, I think I shall be satisfied.”
“Old woman,” said the Owl, “a little more.”
The old woman placed another bowl before the Tip-beetle; and he ate and ate, and swallowed and swallowed, and gulped and sputtered; but with all the standing up and wiggling of his head that he could do he could not finish the bowl; and at last, wiping the perspiration from his brow, he exclaimed: “Thanks, thanks, I am satisfied.”
“Ha, indeed!” said the Owl. Both the old woman and the Tip-beetle had noticed, while the feast was going on, that the Owl had cut out a good-sized round piece of buckskin, and he was running a thread round about the edge of it, leaving two strings at either side, like the strings with which one draws together a pouch. Just as the Tip-beetle returned his thanks the old Owl had finished his work.
“My friend,” said he, turning to the Tip-beetle, “you have feasted to satisfaction, and it appears to me by your motions that you are exceedingly uncomfortable, being larger of girth than is safe and well for a Tip-beetle. Perhaps you are not aware that one who eats freely of bean soup is likely to grow still larger. I would advise you, therefore, when I lay this pouch on the floor, with the mouth of it toward you, to run your head
