“What with?” cried the Owls.
“Grease-weed.”
“He, ha! ho, ho! We make our mush-stew of that!”
“Ha! but I’ll smoke you out, nevertheless, you little beasts!”
“What with? What with?” shouted the Owls.
“Yellow-top weeds,” said he.
“Ha, ha! All right; smoke away! We make our sweet gruel with that, you fool!”
“I’ll fix you! I’ll smoke you out! I’ll suffocate the very last one of you!”
“What with? What with?” shouted the Owls, skipping around on their crooked feet.
“Pitch-pine,” snarled the Coyote.