into it and exhale as much wind as possible; and to facilitate this I will squeeze you slightly.”
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 overpowering odor 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 Zuni 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. 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 Kʻiákime
There was a time in the days of the ancients when the runners of Kʻiákime 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 Zuni, 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 Kʻiákime 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 old Gopher who lived on the side of the hill near which the racecourse 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 Kʻiákime 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 Kʻiákime 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
