“By my ancestors!” exclaimed the Coyote, looking at them; “that is so.”
“Why don’t you come up here and have a feast with me,” said the Turtle, “and leave that meat alone for your brothers and sisters and your old ones?”
“How can I get up there?” whined the Coyote, crawling nearer to the tree.
“Simply reach up until you get your paw over one of the branches, and then haul yourself up,” replied the Turtle.
The little Coyote stretched and jumped, and, though he sometimes succeeded in getting his paw over the branch, he fell back, flop! every time. And then he would yelp and sing out as though every bone in his body was broken.
“Never mind! never mind!” cried the Turtle. “I’ll come down and help you.” So he crawled down the tree, and, reaching over, grabbed the little Coyote by the top-knot, and by much struggling he was able to climb up. When they got to the top of the tree the Turtle said: “There, now, help yourself.”
The little Coyote fell to and filled himself so full that he was as round as a plum and elastic as a cranberry. Then he looked about and licked his chops and tried to breathe, but couldn’t more than half, and said: “Oh, my! if I don’t get some water I’ll choke!”
“My friend,” said the Turtle, “do you see that drop of water gleaming in the sun at the end of that branch of this pine tree?” (It was really pitch.) “Now, I have lived in the tops of trees so much that I know where to go. Trees have springs. Look at that.”
The Coyote looked and was convinced.
“Walk out, now, to the end of the branch, or until you come to one of those drops of water, then take it in your mouth and suck, and all the water you want will flow out.”