Chapter I: FANCY that if almost any of us were asked, “When did people begin (1)

to make fairy stories?” our first thought would be, “Why, of course, after mankind had become civilized, and had invented writing.” But in truth the making of myths, which is no more than a dignified name for “fairy stories,” dates back to the childhood of the human race.

Long before Cadmus invented letters (and I fear Cadmus himself was as much of a myth as was his dragon’s-teeth harvest), long before there were true historians or poets, there were fairy stories and story-tellers. And to-day, if we would seek the place where fairy stories most flourish, we must go, not to the nations whose countless educated minds are now devoted to story-telling for the young, but to peoples who have no books, no magazines, no alphabets--even no pictures.

Of all the aboriginal peoples that remain in North America, none is richer in folk-lore than the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico, who are, I believe, next to the largest of the native tribes left in the United States. They number nine thousand souls. They have nineteen “cities” (called pueblos, also) in this Territory, and seven in Arizona; and each has its little outlying colonies. They are not cities in size, it is true, for the largest (Zuñi) has only fifteen hundred people, and the smallest only about one hundred; but cities they are, nevertheless. And each city, with its fields, is a wee republic--twenty-six of the smallest, and perhaps the oldest, republics in the world; for they were already such when the first European eyes saw America. Each has its governor, its congress, its sheriffs, war-captains, and other officials who are elected annually; its laws, unwritten but unalterable, which are more respected and better enforced than the laws of any American community; its permanent and very comfortable houses, and its broad fields, confirmed first by Spain and later by patents of the United States.

The architecture of the Pueblo houses is quaint and characteristic. In the remote pueblos they are as many as six stories in height--built somewhat in the shape of an enormous terraced pyramid. The Pueblos along the Rio Grande, however, have felt the influence of Mexican customs, and their houses have but one and two stories. All their buildings, including the huge, quaint church which each pueblo has, are made of stone plastered with adobe mud, or of great, sun-dried bricks of adobe. They are the most comfortable dwellings in the Southwest--cool in summer and warm in winter.

The Pueblos are divided into six tribes, each speaking a distinct language of its own. Isleta, the quaint village where I lived five years, in an Indian house, with Indian neighbors, and under Indian laws, is the southernmost of the pueblos, the next largest of them all, and the chief city of the Tée-wahn tribe.[1] All the languages of the Pueblo tribes are exceedingly difficult to learn.

[1] Spelled Tigua by Spanish authors.

Besides the cities now inhabited, the ruins of about fifteen hundred other pueblos--and some of them the noblest ruins in the country--dot the brown valleys and rocky mesa-tops of New Mexico. All these ruins are of stone, and are extremely interesting. The implacable savages by whom they were hemmed in made necessary the abandonment of hundreds of pueblos; and this great number of ruins does not indicate a vast ancient population. The Pueblos _never_ counted above 30,000 souls.

The Pueblo Indians have for nearly two centuries given no trouble to the European sharers of their domain; but their wars of defense against the savage tribes who surrounded them completely--with the Apaches, Navajos, Comanches, and Utes--lasted until a very few years ago. They are valiant fighters for their homes, but prefer any honorable peace. They are not indolent, but industrious--tilling their farms, tending their stock, and keeping all their affairs in order. The women own the houses and their contents, and do not work outside; and the men control the fields and crops. An unhappy home is almost an unknown thing among them; and the universal affection of parents for children and respect of children for parents are extraordinary. I have never seen a child unkindly treated, a parent saucily addressed, or a playmate abused, in all my long and intimate acquaintance with the Pueblos.

Isleta lies on the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, upon the western bank of the Rio Grande, on a lava promontory which was once an island--whence the town takes its Spanish name. Its Tée-wahn title is Shee-eh-whíb-bak.[2] Its population, according to the census taken in 1891, is a little less than twelve hundred. It is nearly surrounded by fertile vineyards, orchards of peaches, apricots, apples, cherries, plums, pears, and quinces, and fields of corn, wheat, beans, and peppers, all owned by my dusky neighbors. The pueblo owns over one hundred and ten thousand acres of land, the greater part of which is reserved for pasturing horses and cattle.

[2] The name means “Knife-laid-on-the-ground-to-play-_whib_.”
_Whib_ is an aboriginal foot-race in which the runners have to
carry a stick with their toes. The name was perhaps suggested
by the knife-like shape of the lava ridge on which the pueblo
is built.

The people of Isleta are, as a rule, rather short in stature, but strongly built. All have a magnificent depth and breadth of chest, and a beautifully confident poise of the head. Most of the men are very expert hunters, tireless runners, and fine horsemen. Besides ordinary hunting they have communal hunts--for rabbits in the spring, for antelope and deer in the fall--thoroughly organized, in which great quantities of game are killed.

Their amusements are many and varied. Aside from the numerous sacred dances of the year, their most important occasions, they have various races which call for great skill and endurance, quaint social enjoyments, and games of many kinds, some of which are quite as difficult as chess. They are very fair weavers and pottery-makers. The women are good housewives, and most of them excellent seamstresses.

Yet, with all this progress in civilization, despite their mental and physical acuteness and their excellent moral qualities, the Tée-wahn are in some things but overgrown children. Their secret inner religion[3] is one of the most complicated systems on earth. Besides the highest deities, all the forces of nature, all animals, as well as many things that are inanimate, are invested by them with supernatural powers. They do not worship idols, but images and tokens of unseen powers are revered. They do nothing without some reason, generally a religious one, and whatever they observe they can explain in their own superstitious way. Every custom they have and every belief they own has a reason which to them is all-sufficient; and for each they have a story. There is no duty to which a Pueblo child is trained in which he has to be content with the bare command, “Do thus”; for each he learns a fairy tale designed to explain how people first came to know that it was right to do thus, and detailing the sad results which befell those who did otherwise.

[3] For they are all devout, if not entirely understanding,
members of a Christian church; but keep also much of their
prehistoric faiths.

It is from this wonderful folk-lore of the Tée-wahn that I have learned--after long study of the people, their language, customs, and myths--and taken, unchanged and unembellished, this series of Indian fairy tales. I have been extremely careful to preserve, in my translations, the exact Indian _spirit_. An absolutely literal translation would be almost unintelligible to English readers, but I have taken no liberties with the real meaning.

The use of books is not only to tell, but to preserve; not only for to-day, but for ever. What an Indian wishes to perpetuate must be saved by tongue and ear, by “telling-down,” as were the world’s first histories and poems. This oral transmission from father to son is of sacred importance with the natives. Upon it depends the preservation of the amusements, the history, the beliefs, the customs, and the laws of their nation. A people less observant, less accurate of speech and of memory, would make a sad failure of this sort of record; but with them it is a wonderful success. The story goes down from generation to generation, almost without the change of a word. The fact that it is told in fixed metrical form--a sort of blank verse--helps the memory.

Here in Isleta, the quaint pueblo of the Tée-wahn, I became deeply interested not only in the folk-stories themselves, but also in the manner of handing them down. Winter is the season for story-telling. Then the thirsty fields no longer cry for water, the irrigating-ditches have ceased to gnaw at their banks, and the men are often at leisure. Then, of an evening, if I go over to visit some _vecino_ (neighbor), I am likely to find, in the great adobe living-room, a group of very old men and very young boys gathered about the queer little corner fireplace with its blazing upright sticks. They, too, have come a-visiting. The young men are gathered in another corner by themselves, eating roasted corn, and talking in whispers so as not to disturb their elders, for respect to age is the corner-stone of all Indian training. They are not required to listen to the stories, being supposed to know them already.

* * * * *

If in the far, sweet days when I stood at my grandmother’s knee, and shivered over “Bluebeard,” or thrilled at “Jack the Giant-killer,” some one could have shown us a picture of me as I was to be listening to other fairy tales twenty-five years later, I am sure that her eyes would have opened wide as mine. Certainly neither of us ever dreamed that, thousands of miles from the old New England fireplace, when the dear figures that sat with me before its blazing forestick had long been dust, I would be sitting where I am to-night and listening to the strange, dark people who are around me.

The room is long and low, and overhead are dark, round rafters--the trunks of straight pine-trees that used to purr on the sides of the most famous mountain in New Mexico. The walls are white as snow, and you would never imagine that they are built only of cut sods, plastered over and whitewashed. The floor is of adobe clay, packed almost as hard as a rock, and upon it are bright-hued blankets, woven in strange figures. Along the walls are benches, with wool mattresses rolled up and laid upon them. By and by these will be spread upon the floor for beds, but just now they serve as cushioned seats. Over in a corner are strange earthen jars of water, with little gourd dippers floating, and here and there upon the wall hang bows and arrows in sheaths of the tawny hide of the mountain lion; queer woven belts of red and green, and heavy necklaces of silver and coral, with charms of turquoise--the stone that stole its color from the sky.

There is a fireplace, too, and we are gathered all about it, a dozen or more--for I have become an old friend here. But it is not like the fireplace where the little sister and I used to roast our apples and pop our corn. A wee hearth of clay rises a few inches from the floor; a yard above it hangs the chimney, like a big white hood; and a little wall, four feet high, runs from it out into the room, that the wind from the outer door may not blow the ashes. There is no big front log, but three or four gnarled cedar sticks, standing on one end, crackle loudly.

Some of us are seated on benches, and upon the floor. His back against the wall, squats my host, who is just going to begin another fairy story. Such a wee, withered, wrinkled old man! It seems as though the hot winds of the Southwest had dried him as they dry the forgotten last year’s apples that shrivel here and there upon lonely boughs. He must be a century old. His children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren are all represented here to-night. Yet his black eyes are like a hawk’s, under their heavy brows, and his voice is musical and deep. I have never heard a more eloquent story-teller, and I have heard some famous ones. I can tell you the words, but not the impressive tones, the animation of eye and accent, the eloquent gestures of this venerable Indian as he tells--what? An Indian telling fairy stories?

Yes, indeed. He is the very man to tell them. If this dusky old playground for wrinkles, who never saw the inside of a book, could write out all the fairy stories he knows, Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary would hardly hold them. His father and his father’s father, and so on back for countless centuries, have handed down these stories by telling, from generation to generation, just as Tata[4] Lorenso is telling his great-great-grandsons to-night. When these boys grow up, they will tell these stories to their sons and grandsons; and so the legends will pass on and on, so long as there shall be a Tée-wahn Indian left in all New Mexico.

[4] “Father.”

But Lorenso is ready with his story. He pauses only to make a cigarette from the material in my pouch (they call me _Por todos_, because I have tobacco “for all”), explains for my benefit that this is a story of the beginning of Isleta, pats the head of the chubby boy at his knee, and begins again.

I

THE ANTELOPE BOY

ONCE upon a time there were two towns of the Tée-wahn, called Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee (white village) and Nah-choo-rée-too-ee (yellow village). A man of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee and his wife were attacked by Apaches while out on the plains one day, and took refuge in a cave, where they were besieged. And there a boy was born to them. The father was killed in an attempt to return to his village for help; and starvation finally forced the mother to crawl forth by night seeking roots to eat. Chased by the Apaches, she escaped to her own village, and it was several days before she could return to the cave--only to find it empty.

The baby had begun to cry soon after her departure. Just then a Coyote[5] was passing, and heard. Taking pity on the child, he picked it up and carried it across the plain until he came to a herd of antelopes. Among them was a Mother-Antelope that had lost her fawn; and going to her the Coyote said:

[5] The small prairie-wolf.

“Here is an _ah-bóo_ (poor thing) that is left by its people. Will you take care of it?”

The Mother-Antelope, remembering her own baby, with tears said “Yes,” and at once adopted the tiny stranger, while the Coyote thanked her and went home.

So the boy became as one of the antelopes, and grew up among them until he was about twelve years old. Then it happened that a hunter came out from Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee for antelopes, and found this herd. Stalking them carefully, he shot one with an arrow. The rest started off, running like the wind; but ahead of them all, as long as they were in sight, he saw a boy! The hunter was much surprised, and, shouldering his game, walked back to the village, deep in thought. Here he told the Cacique[6] what he had seen. Next day the crier was sent out to call upon all the people to prepare for a great hunt, in four days, to capture the Indian boy who lived with the antelopes.

[6] The highest religious official.

While preparations were going on in the village, the antelopes in some way heard of the intended hunt and its purpose. The Mother-Antelope was very sad when she heard it, and at first would say nothing. But at last she called her adopted son to her and said: “Son, you have heard that the people of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee are coming to hunt. But they will not kill us; all they wish is to take you. They will surround us, intending to let all the antelopes escape from the circle. You must follow me where I break through the line, and your real mother will be coming on the northeast side in a white _manta_ (robe). I will pass close to her, and you must stagger and fall where she can catch you.”

On the fourth day all the people went out upon the plains. They found and surrounded the herd of antelopes, which ran about in a circle when the hunters closed upon them. The circle grew smaller, and the antelopes began to break through; but the hunters paid no attention to them, keeping their eyes upon the boy. At last he and his antelope mother were the only ones left, and when she broke through the line on the northeast he followed her and fell at the feet of his own human mother, who sprang forward and clasped him in her arms.

Amid great rejoicing he was taken to Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee, and there he told the _principales_[7] how he had been left in the cave, how the Coyote had pitied him, and how the Mother-Antelope had reared him as her own son.

[7] The old men who are the congress of the pueblo.

It was not long before all the country round about heard of the Antelope Boy and of his marvelous fleetness of foot. You must know that the antelopes never comb their hair, and while among them the boy’s head had grown very bushy. So the people called him _Pée-hleh-o-wah-wée-deh_ (big-headed little boy).

Among the other villages that heard of his prowess was Nah-choo-rée-too-ee, all of whose people “had the bad road.”[8] They had a wonderful runner named _Pée-k’hoo_ (Deer-foot), and very soon they sent a challenge to Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee for a championship race. Four days were to be given for preparation, to make bets, and the like. The race was to be around the world.[9] Each village was to stake all its property and the lives of all its people on the result of the race. So powerful were the witches of Nah-choo-rée-too-ee that they felt safe in proposing so serious a stake; and the people of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee were ashamed to decline the challenge.

[8] That is, were witches.

[9] The Pueblos believed it was an immense plain whereon the
racers were to race over a square course--to the extreme
east, then to the extreme north, and so on, back to the
starting-point.

The day came, and the starting-point was surrounded by all the people of the two villages, dressed in their best. On each side were huge piles of ornaments and dresses, stores of grain, and all the other property of the people. The runner for the yellow village was a tall, sinewy athlete, strong in his early manhood; and when the Antelope Boy appeared for the other side, the witches set up a howl of derision, and began to strike their rivals and jeer at them, saying, “Pooh! We might as well begin to kill you now! What can that _óo-deh_ (little thing) do?”

* * * * *

At the word “_Hái-ko!_” (“Go!”) the two runners started toward the east like the wind. The Antelope Boy soon forged ahead; but Deer-foot, by his witchcraft, changed himself into a hawk and flew lightly over the lad, saying, “_We_ do this way to each other!”[10] The Antelope Boy kept running, but his heart was very heavy, for he knew that no feet could equal the swift flight of the hawk.

[10] A common Indian taunt, either good-natured or bitter, to
the loser of a game or to a conquered enemy.

But just as he came half-way to the east, a Mole came up from its burrow and said:

“My son, where are you going so fast with a sad face?”

The lad explained that the race was for the property and lives of all his people; and that the witch-runner had turned to a hawk and left him far behind.

“Then, my son,” said the Mole, “I will be he that shall help you. Only sit down here a little while, and I will give you something to carry.”

The boy sat down, and the Mole dived into the hole, but soon came back with four cigarettes.[11]

[11] These are made by putting a certain weed called
_pee-én-hleh_ into hollow reeds.

Holding them out, the Mole said, “Now, my son, when you have reached the east and turned north, smoke one; when you have reached the north and turn west, smoke another; when you turn south, another, and when you turn east again, another. _Hái-ko!_”

The boy ran on, and soon reached the east. Turning his face to the north he smoked the first cigarette. No sooner was it finished than he became a young antelope; and at the same instant a furious rain began. Refreshed by the cool drops, he started like an arrow from the bow. Half-way to the north he came to a large tree; and there sat the hawk, drenched and chilled, unable to fly, and crying piteously.

“Now, friend, _we_ too do this to each other,” called the boy-antelope as he dashed past. But just as he reached the north, the hawk--which had become dry after the short rain--caught up and passed him, saying, “We too do this to each other!” The boy-antelope turned westward, and smoked the second cigarette; and at once another terrific rain began.[12] Half-way to the west he again passed the hawk shivering and crying in a tree, and unable to fly; but as he was about to turn to the south, the hawk passed him with the customary taunt. The smoking of the third cigarette brought another storm, and again the antelope passed the wet hawk half-way, and again the hawk dried its feathers in time to catch up and pass him as he was turning to the east for the home-stretch. Here again the boy-antelope stopped and smoked a cigarette--the fourth and last. Again a short, hard rain came, and again he passed the water-bound hawk half-way.

[12] I should state, by the way, that the cigarette plays an
important part in the Pueblo folk-stories,--they never had the
pipe of the Northern Indians,--and all rain-clouds are supposed
to come from its smoke.

Knowing the witchcraft of their neighbors, the people of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee had made the condition that, in whatever shape the racers might run the rest of the course, they must resume human form upon arrival at a certain hill upon the fourth turn, which was in sight of the goal. The last wetting of the hawk’s feathers delayed it so that the antelope reached the hill just ahead; and there, resuming their natural shapes, the two runners came sweeping down the home-stretch, straining every nerve. But the Antelope Boy gained at each stride. When they saw him, the witch-people felt confident that he was their champion, and again began to push, and taunt, and jeer at the others. But when the little Antelope Boy sprang lightly across the line, far ahead of Deer-foot, their joy turned to mourning.

The people of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee burned all the witches upon the spot, in a great pile of corn; but somehow one escaped, and from him come all the witches that trouble us to this day.

The property of the witches was taken to Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee; and as it was more than that village could hold, the surplus was sent to Shee-eh-whíb-bak (Isleta), where we enjoy it to this day; and later the people themselves moved here. And even now, when we dig in that little hill on the other side of the _charco_ (pool), we find charred corn-cobs, where our forefathers burned the witch-people of the yellow village.

During Lorenso’s story the black eyes of the boys have never left his face; and at every pause they have made the customary response, “Is that so?” to show their attention; while the old men have nodded approbation, and smoked in deep silence.

Now Lorenso turns to Desiderio,[13] who is far more wrinkled even than he, and says, “You have a tail, brother.” And Desiderio, clearing his throat and making a new cigarette with great impressiveness, begins: “My sons, do you know why the Coyote and the Crows are always at war? No? Then I will tell you.”

[13] Pronounced Day-see-dáy-ree-oh.

II

THE COYOTE AND THE CROWS

ONCE on a time many Káh-ahn lived in the edge of some woods. A little out into the plain stood a very large tree, with much sand under it. One day a Coyote was passing, and heard the Crows singing and dancing under this tree, and came up to watch them. They were dancing in a circle, and each Crow had upon his back a large bag.

“Crow-friends, what are you doing?” asked the Coyote, who was much interested.

“Oh, we are dancing with our mothers,” said the Crows.

“How pretty! And will you let me dance, too?” asked the Coyote of the _too-whit-lah-wid-deh_ crow (captain of the dance).

“Oh, yes,” replied the Crow. “Go and put your mother in a bag and come to the dance.”

The Coyote went running home. There his old mother was sitting in the corner of the fireplace. The stupid Coyote picked up a stick and struck her on the head, and put her in a bag, and hurried back to the dance with her.

The Crows were dancing merrily, and singing: “_Ai nana, que-ée-rah, que-ée-rah_.” (“Alas, Mama! you are shaking, you are shaking!”) The Coyote joined the dance, with the bag on his back, and sang as the Crows did:

“_Ai nana, que-ée-rah, que-ée-rah_.”[14]

[14] _Ai nana_ is an exclamation always used by mourners.

But at last the Crows burst out laughing, and said, “What do you bring in your bag?”

“My mother, as you told me,” replied the Coyote, showing them.

Then the Crows emptied their bags, which were filled with nothing but sand, and flew up into the tree, laughing.

The Coyote then saw that they had played him a trick, and started home, crying “_Ai nana!_” When he got home he took his mother from the bag and tried to set her up in the chimney-corner, always crying, “_Ai nana_, why don’t you sit up as before?” But she could not, for she was dead. When he found that she could not sit up any more, he vowed to follow the Crows and eat them all the rest of his life; and from that day to this he has been hunting them, and they are always at war.

As Desiderio concludes, the old men hitch their blankets around their shoulders. “No more stories to-night?” I ask; and Lorenso says:

“_In-dáh_ (no). Now it is to go to bed. _Tóo-kwai_ (come),” to the boys. “Good night, friends. Another time, perhaps.”

And we file out through the low door into the starry night.

III

THE WAR-DANCE OF THE MICE

TO-NIGHT it is withered Diego[15] who begins with his story, in the musical but strange Tée-wahn tongue, of “Shée-choon t’o-ah-fuar.” Serious as that looks, it means only “the war-dance of the Mice.”

[15] Pronounced Dee-áy-go.

Once upon a time there was war between the people of Isleta and the Mice. There was a great battle, in which the Tée-wahn killed many Mice and took their scalps. Then the Tée-wahn returned to their village, and the warriors went into the _estufa_ (sacred council-chamber) to prepare themselves by fasting for the great scalp-dance in twelve days. While the warriors were sitting inside, the Mice came secretly by night to attack the town, and their spies crept up to the _estufa_. When all the Tée-wahn warriors had fallen asleep, the Mice came stealing down the big ladder into the room, and creeping from sleeper to sleeper, they gnawed every bowstring and cut the feathers from the arrows and the strap of every sling. When this was done, the Mice raised a terrible war-whoop and rushed upon the warriors, brandishing their spears. The Tée-wahn woke and caught up their bows and arrows, but only to find them useless. So the warriors could do nothing but run from their tiny foes, and up the ladder to the roof they rushed pell-mell and thence fled to their homes, leaving the Mice victorious.

The rest of the town made such fun of the warriors that they refused to return to the fight; and the elated Mice held a public dance in front of the _estufa_. A brave sight it was, the army of these little people, singing and dancing and waving their spears. They were dressed in red blankets, with leather leggings glistening with silver buttons from top to bottom, and gay moccasins. Each had two eagle feathers tied to the top of his spear--the token of victory. And as they danced and marched and counter-marched, they sang exultingly:

_Shée-oh-pah ch’-ót-im!
Neh-máh-hlee-oh ch’-ot-im!
Hló-tu feé-ny p’-óh-teh!_

over and over again--which means

Quick we cut the bowstring!
Quick we cut the sling-strap!
We shaved the arrow-feathers off!

For four days they danced and sang, and on the night of the fourth day danced all night around a big bonfire. The next morning they marched away. That was the time when the Mice conquered men; and that is the reason why we have never been able to drive the Mice out of our homes to this day.

“Is _that_ the reason?” ask all the boys, who have been listening with big black eyes intent.

“That is the very reason,” says withered Diego. “Now, _compadre_ Antonio, there is a tail to you.”

Antonio, thus called upon, cannot refuse. Indian etiquette is very strict upon this point--as well as upon all others. So he fishes in his memory for a story, while the boys turn expectant faces toward him. He is not nearly so wrinkled as Diego, but he is very, very old, and his voice is a little tremulous at first. Wrapping his blanket about him, he begins:

Then I will tell you why the Coyote and the Blackbirds are enemies--for once they were very good friends in the old days.

IV

THE COYOTE AND THE BLACKBIRDS

ONCE upon a time a Coyote lived near an open wood. As he went to walk one day near the edge of the wood, he heard the Blackbirds (the Indian name means “seeds of the prairie”) calling excitedly:

“Bring my bag! Bring my bag! It is going to hail!”

The Coyote, being very curious, came near and saw that they all had buckskin bags to which they were tying lassos, the other ends of which were thrown over the boughs of the trees. Very much surprised, the Coyote came to them and asked:

“Blackbird-friends, what are you doing?”

“Oh, friend Coyote,” they replied, “we are making ourselves ready, for soon there will be a very hard hail-storm, and we do not wish to be pelted to death. We are going to get into these bags and pull ourselves up under the branches, where the hail cannot strike us.”

“That is very good,” said the Coyote, “and I would like to do so, too, if you will let me join you.”

“Oh, yes! Just run home and get a bag and a lasso, and come back here and we will help you,” said the Pah-táhn, never smiling.

So the Coyote started running for home, and got a large bag and a lasso, and came back to the Blackbirds, who were waiting. They fixed the rope and bag for him, putting the noose around the neck of the bag so that it would be closed tight when the rope was pulled. Then they threw the end of the lasso over a strong branch and said:

“Now, friend Coyote, you get into your bag first, for you are so big and heavy that you cannot pull yourself up, and we will have to help you.”

The Coyote crawled into the bag, and all the Blackbirds taking hold of the rope, pulled with all their might till the bag was swung clear up under the branch. Then they tied the end of the lasso around the tree so the bag could not come down, and ran around picking up all the pebbles they could find.

“Mercy! How the hail comes!” they cried excitedly, and began to throw stones at the swinging bag as hard as ever they could.

“Mercy!” howled the Coyote, as the pebbles pattered against him. “But this is a terrible storm, Blackbird-friends! It pelts me dreadfully! And how are you getting along?”

“It is truly very bad, friend Coyote,” they answered, “but you are bigger and stronger than we, and ought to endure it.” And they kept pelting him, all the time crying and chattering as if they, too, were suffering greatly from the hail.

“Ouch!” yelled the Coyote. “That one hit me very near the eye, friends! I fear this evil storm will kill us all!”

“But be brave, friend,” called back the Blackbirds. “We keep our hearts, and so should you, for you are much stronger than we.” And they pelted him all the harder.

So they kept it up until they were too tired to throw any more; and as for the Coyote, he was so bruised and sore that he could hardly move. Then they untied the rope and let the bag slowly to the ground, and loosened the noose at the neck and flew up into the trees with sober faces.

“Ow!” groaned the Coyote, “I am nearly dead!” And he crawled weeping and groaning from the bag, and began to lick his bruises. But when he looked around and saw the sun shining and the ground dry, and not a hailstone anywhere, he knew that the Blackbirds had given him a trick, and he limped home in a terrible rage, vowing that as soon as ever he got well he would follow and eat the Blackbirds as long as he lived. And ever since, even to this day, he has been following them to eat them, and that is why the Coyote and the Blackbirds are always at war.

“Is that so?” cried all the boys in chorus, their eyes shining like coals.

“Oh, yes, that is the cause of the war,” said old Antonio, gravely. “And now, brother, there is a tail to you,” turning to the tall, gray-haired Felipe[16]; and clearing his throat, Felipe begins about the Coyote and the Bear.

[16] Pronounced Fay-lée-peh.

V

THE COYOTE AND THE BEAR[17]

[17] The Coyote, you must know, is very stupid about some
things; and in almost all Pueblo fairy stories is the victim of
one joke or another. The bear, on the other hand, is one of the
wisest of animals.

ONCE upon a time Ko-íd-deh (the Bear) and Too-wháy-deh (the Coyote) chanced to meet at a certain spot, and sat down to talk. After a while the Bear said:

“Friend Coyote, do you see what good land this is here? What do you say if we farm it together, sharing our labor and the crop?”

The Coyote thought well of it, and said so; and after talking, they agreed to plant potatoes in partnership.

“Now,” said the Bear, “I think of a good way to divide the crop. I will take all that grows below the ground, and you take all that grows above it. Then each can take away his share when he is ready, and there will be no trouble to measure.”

The Coyote agreed, and when the time came they plowed the place with a sharp stick and planted their potatoes. All summer they worked together in the field, hoeing down the weeds with stone hoes and letting in water now and then from the irrigating-ditch. When harvest-time came, the Coyote went and cut off all the potato-tops at the ground and carried them home, and afterward the Bear scratched out the potatoes from the ground with his big claws and took them to his house. When the Coyote saw this his eyes were opened, and he said:

“But this is not fair. You have those round things, which are good to eat, but what I took home we cannot eat at all, neither my wife nor I.”

“But, friend Coyote,” answered the Bear, gravely, “did we not make an agreement? Then we must stick to it like men.”

The Coyote could not answer, and went home; but he was not satisfied.

The next spring, as they met one day, the Bear said:

“Come, friend Coyote, I think we ought to plant this good land again, and this time let us plant it in corn. But last year you were dissatisfied with your share, so this year we will change. You take what is below the ground for your share, and I will take only what grows above.”

This seemed very fair to the Coyote, and he agreed. They plowed and planted and tended the corn; and when it came harvest-time the Bear gathered all the stalks and ears and carried them home. When the Coyote came to dig his share, he found nothing but roots like threads, which were good for nothing. He was very much dissatisfied; but the Bear reminded him of their agreement, and he could say nothing.

That winter the Coyote was walking one day by the river (the Rio Grande), when he saw the Bear sitting on the ice and eating a fish. The Coyote was very fond of fish, and coming up, he said:

“Friend Bear, where did you get such a fat fish?”

“Oh, I broke a hole in the ice,” said the Bear, “and fished for them. There are many here.” And he went on eating, without offering any to the Coyote.

“Won’t you show me how, friend?” asked the Coyote, fainting with hunger at the smell of the fish.

“Oh, yes,” said the Bear. “It is very easy.” And he broke a hole in the ice with his paw. “Now, friend Coyote, sit down and let your tail hang in the water, and very soon you will feel a nibble. But you must not pull it till I tell you.”

So the Coyote sat down with his tail in the cold water. Soon the ice began to form around it, and he called:

“Friend Bear, I feel a bite! Let me pull him out.”

“No, no! Not yet!” cried the Bear, “wait till he gets a good hold, and then you will not lose him.”

So the Coyote waited. In a few minutes the hole was frozen solid, and his tail was fast.

“Now, friend Coyote,” called the Bear, “I think you have him. Pull!”

The Coyote pulled with all his might, but could not lift his tail from the ice, and there he was--a prisoner. While he pulled and howled, the Bear shouted with laughter, and rolled on the ice and ha-ha’d till his sides were sore. Then he took his fish and went home, stopping every little to laugh at the thought of the Coyote.

There on the ice the Coyote had to stay until a thaw liberated him, and when he got home he was very wet and cold and half starved. And from that day to this he has never forgiven the Bear, and will not even speak to him when they meet, and the Bear says, politely, “Good morning, friend Too-wháy-deh.”

“Is that so?” cry the boys.

“That is so,” says Felipe. “But now it is time to go home. _Tóo-kwai!_”

The story-telling is over for to-night. Grandmother Reyes is unrolling the mattresses upon the floor; and with pleasant “good-nights” we scatter for our homes here and there in the quaint adobe village.

VI

THE FIRST OF THE RATTLESNAKES

“NOW there is a tail to you, _compadre_ [friend],” said old Desiderio, nodding at Patricio[18] after we had sat awhile in silence around the crackling fire.

[18] Pronounced Pah-trée-see-oh.

Patricio had a broad strip of rawhide across his knee, and was scraping the hair from it with a dull knife. It was high time to be thinking of new soles, for already there was a wee hole in the bottom of each of his moccasins; and as for Benito, his shy little grandson, _his_ toes were all abroad.

But shrilly as the cold night-wind outside hinted the wisdom of speedy cobbling, Patricio had no wish to acquire that burro’s tail, so, laying the rawhide and knife upon the floor beside him, he deliberately rolled a modest pinch of the aromatic _koo-ah-rée_ in a corn-husk, lighted it at the coals, and drew Benito’s tousled head to his side.

“You have heard,” he said, with a slow puff, “about Nah-chu-rú-chu, the mighty medicine-man who lived here in Isleta in the times of the ancients?”

“_Ah-h!_” (Yes) cried all the boys. “You have promised to tell us how he married the moon!”

“Another time I will do so. But now I shall tell you something that was before that--for Nah-chu-rú-chu had many strange adventures before he married Páh-hlee-oh, the Moon-Mother. Do you know why the rattlesnake--which is the king of all snakes and alone has the power of death in his mouth--always shakes his _guaje_[19] before he bites?”

[19] The Pueblo sacred rattle.

“_Een-dah!_” chorused Ramón and Benito, and Fat Juan, and Tomás,[20] very eagerly; for they were particularly fond of hearing about the exploits of the greatest of Tée-wahn medicine-men.

[20] Pronounced Rah-móhn, Bay-née-toh, Whahn, Toh-máhs.

“Listen, then, and you shall hear.”

* * * * *

In those days Nah-chu-rú-chu had a friend who lived in a pueblo nearer the foot of the Eagle-Feather Mountain than this, in the Place of the Red Earth, where still are its ruins; and the two young men went often to the mountain together to bring wood and to hunt. Now, Nah-chu-rú-chu had a white heart, and never thought ill; but the friend had the evil road and became jealous, for Nah-chu-rú-chu was a better hunter. But he said nothing, and made as if he still loved Nah-chu-rú-chu truly.

One day the friend came over from his village and said:

“Friend Nah-chu-rú-chu, let us go to-morrow for wood and to have a hunt.”

“It is well,” replied Nah-chu-rú-chu. Next morning he started very early and came to the village of his friend; and together they went to the mountain. When they had gathered much wood, and lashed it in bundles for carrying, they started off in opposite directions to hunt. In a short time each returned with a fine fat deer.

“But why should we hasten to go home, friend Nah-chu-rú-chu?” said the friend. “It is still early, and we have much time. Come, let us stop here and amuse ourselves with a game.”

“It is well, friend,” answered Nah-chu-rú-chu; “but what game shall we play? For we have neither _pa-toles_, nor hoops, nor any other game here.”

“See! we will roll the _mah-khúr_,[21] for while I was waiting for you I made one that we might play”--and the false friend drew from beneath his blanket a pretty painted hoop; but really he had made it at home, and had brought it hidden, on purpose to do harm to Nah-chu-rú-chu.

[21] The game of _mah-khúr_, which the Pueblos learned from
the Apaches many centuries ago, is a very simple one, but is
a favorite with all witches as a snare for those whom they
would injure. A small hoop of willow is painted gaily, and has
ornamental buckskin thongs stretched across it from side to
side, spoke-fashion. The challenger to a game rolls the hoop
rapidly past the challenged, who must throw a lance through
between the spokes before it ceases to roll.

“Now go down there and catch it when I roll it,” said he; and Nah-chu-rú-chu did so. But as he caught the hoop when it came rolling, he was no longer Nah-chu-rú-chu the brave hunter, but a poor Coyote with great tears rolling down his nose!

“Hu!” said the false friend, tauntingly, “we do this to each other! So now you have all the plains to wander over, to the north, and west, and south; but you can never go to the east. And if you are not lucky, the dogs will tear you; but if you are lucky, they may have pity on you. So now good-by, for this is the last I shall ever see of you.”

Then the false friend went away, laughing, to his village; and the poor Coyote wandered aimlessly, weeping to think that he had been betrayed by the one he had loved and trusted as a brother. For four days he prowled about the outskirts of Isleta, looking wistfully at his home. The fierce dogs ran out to tear him; but when they came near they only sniffed at him, and went away without hurting him. He could find nothing to eat save dry bones, and old thongs or soles of moccasins.

On the fourth day he turned westward, and wandered until he came to Mesita.[22] There was no town of the Lagunas there then, and only a shepherd’s hut and corral, in which were an old Quères Indian and his grandson, tending their goats.

[22] An outlying colony of Laguna, forty miles from Isleta.

Next morning when the grandson went out very early to let the goats from the corral, he saw a Coyote run out from among the goats. It went off a little way, and then sat down and watched him. The boy counted the goats, and none were missing, and he thought it strange. But he said nothing to his grandfather.

For three more mornings the very same thing happened; and on the fourth morning the boy told his grandfather. The old man came out, and set the dogs after the Coyote, which was sitting a little way off; but when they came near they would not touch him.

“I suspect there is something wrong here,” said the old shepherd; and he called: “Coyote, are you coyote-true, or are you people?”

But the Coyote could not answer; and the old man called again: “Coyote, are you people?”

At that the Coyote nodded his head, “Yes.”

“If that is so, come here and be not afraid of us; for we will be the ones to help you out of this trouble.”

So the Coyote came to them and licked their hands, and they gave it food--for it was dying of hunger. When it was fed, the old man said:

“Now, son, you are going out with the goats along the creek, and there you will see some willows. With your mind look at two willows, and mark them; and to-morrow morning you must go and bring one of them.”

The boy went away tending the goats, and the Coyote stayed with the old man. Next morning, when they awoke very early, they saw all the earth wrapped in a white _manta_.[23]

[23] This figure is always used by the Pueblos in speaking of
snow in connection with sacred things.

“Now, son,” said the old man, “you must wear only your moccasins and breech-clout, and go like a man to the two willows you marked yesterday. To one of them you must pray; and then cut the other and bring it to me.”

The boy did so and came back with the willow stick. The old man prayed, and made a _mah-khúr_ hoop; and bidding the Coyote stand a little way off and stick his head through the hoop before it should stop rolling, rolled it toward him. The Coyote waited till the hoop came very close, and gave a great jump and put his head through it before it could stop. And lo! there stood Nah-chu-rú-chu, young and handsome as ever; but his beautiful suit of fringed buckskin was all in rags. For four days he stayed there and was cleansed with the cleansing of the medicine-man; and then the old shepherd said to him:

“Now, friend Nah-chu-rú-chu, there is a road.[24] But take with you this _faja_,[25] for though your power is great, you have submitted to this evil. When you get home, he who did this to you will be first to know, and he will come pretending to be your friend, as if he had done nothing; and he will ask you to go hunting again. So you must go; and when you come to the mountain, with this _faja_ you shall repay him.”

[24] That is, you can go home.

[25] A fine woven belt, with figures in red and green.

Nah-chu-rú-chu thanked the kind old shepherd, and started home. But when he came to the Bad Hill and looked down into the valley of the Rio Grande, his heart sank. All the grass and fields and trees were dry and dead--for Nah-chu-rú-chu was the medicine-man who controlled the clouds, so no rain could fall when he was gone; and the eight days he had been a Coyote were in truth eight years. The river was dry, and the springs; and many of the people were dead from thirst, and the rest were dying. But as Nah-chu-rú-chu came down the hill, it began to rain again, and all the people were glad.

When he came into the pueblo, all the famishing people came out to welcome him. And soon came the false friend, making as if he had never bewitched him nor had known whither he disappeared.

In a few days the false friend came again to propose a hunt; and next morning they went to the mountain together. Nah-chu-rú-chu had the pretty _faja_ wound around his waist; and when the wind blew his blanket aside, the other saw it.

“Ay! What a pretty _faja_!” cried the false friend. “Give it to me, friend Nah-chu-rú-chu.”

“_Een-dah!_” (No) said Nah-chu-rú-chu. But the false friend begged so hard that at last he said:

“Then I will roll it to you; and if you can catch it before it unwinds, you may have it.”

So he wound it up,[26] and holding by one end gave it a push so that it ran away from him, unrolling as it went. The false friend jumped for it, but it was unrolled before he caught it.

[26] Like a roll of tape.

“_Een-dah!_” said Nah-chu-rú-chu, pulling it back. “If you do not care enough for it to be spryer than that, you cannot have it.”

The false friend begged for another trial; so Nah-chu-rú-chu rolled it again. This time the false friend caught it before it was unrolled; and lo! instead of a tall young man, there lay a great rattlesnake with tears rolling from his lidless eyes!

“We, too, do this to each other!” said Nah-chu-rú-chu. He took from his medicine-pouch a pinch of the sacred meal and laid it on the snake’s flat head for its food; and then a pinch of the corn-pollen to tame it.[27] And the snake ran out its red forked tongue, and licked them.

[27] This same spell is still used here by the _Hee-but-hái_,
or snake-charmers.

“Now,” said Nah-chu-rú-chu, “this mountain and all rocky places shall be your home. But you can never again do to another harm, without warning, as you did to me. For see, there is a _guaje_[28] in your tail, and whenever you would do any one an injury, you must warn them beforehand with your rattle.”

[28] Pronounced Gwáh-heh.

“And is that the reason why Ch’ah-rah-ráh-deh always rattles to give warning before he bites?” asked Fat Juan, who is now quite as often called Juan Biscocho (John Biscuit), since I photographed him one day crawling out of the big adobe bake-oven where he had been hiding.

“That is the very reason. Then Nah-chu-rú-chu left his false friend, from whom all the rattlesnakes are descended, and came back to his village. From that time all went well with Isleta, for Nah-chu-rú-chu was at home again to attend to the clouds. There was plenty of rain, and the river began to run again, and the springs flowed. The people plowed and planted again, as they had not been able to do for several years, and all their work prospered. As for the people who lived in the Place of the Red Earth, they all moved down here,[29] because the Apaches were very bad; and here their descendants live to this day.”

[29] It is a proved fact that there was such a migration.

“Is that so?” sighed all the boys in chorus, sorry that the story was so soon done.

“That is so,” replied old Patricio. “And now, _compadre_ Antonio, there is a tail to you.”

“Well, then, I will tell a story which they showed me in Taos[30] last year,” said the old man.

[30] The most northern of the Pueblo cities. Its people are
also Tée-wahn.

“Ah-h!” said the boys.

“It is about the Coyote and the Woodpecker.”

VII

THE COYOTE AND THE WOODPECKER

WELL, once upon a time a Coyote and his family lived near the edge of a wood. There was a big hollow tree there, and in it lived an old Woodpecker and his wife and children. One day as the Coyote-father was strolling along the edge of the forest he met the Woodpecker-father.

“_Hin-no-kah-kée-ma_” (Good evening), said the Coyote; “how do you do to-day, friend Hloo-rée-deh?”

“Very well, thank you; and how are you, friend Too-wháy-deh?”

So they stopped and talked together awhile; and when they were about to go apart the Coyote said:

“Friend Woodpecker, why do you not come as friends to see us? Come to our house to supper this evening, and bring your family.”