Now, the Locust wisely concluded that this would be the case, and as he did not like the Coyote very well, having been told that sometimes members of his tribe were by no means friendly to Locusts and other insects, he concluded to play him a trick and teach him a lesson in the minding of his own affairs. So, catching tight hold of the bark, he swelled himself up and strained until his back split open; then he skinned himself out of his old skin, and, crawling down the tree, found a suitable quartz stone, which, being light-colored and clear, would not make his skin look unlike himself. He took the stone up the tree and carefully placed it in the empty skin. Then he cemented the back together with a little pitch and left his exact counterfeit sticking to the bark, after which he flew away to a neighboring tree.
No sooner had the Coyote recovered his equanimity to some extent than, discovering the loss of his song and again exclaiming “No doubt he is still there piping away; I’ll go and get him to sing it over,”—he ran back as fast as he could.
“Ah wha!” he exclaimed, as he neared the tree. “I am quite fatigued with all this extra running about. But, no matter; I see you are still there, my friend. A lot of miserable, gray-backed Ground-pigeons flew up right from under me as I was going along singing my song, and they startled me so that I forgot it; but I tell you, I cursed them heartily! Now, my friend, will you not be good enough to sing once more for me?”
He paused for a reply. None came.
“Why, what’s the matter? Don’t you hear me?” yelled the Coyote, running nearer, looking closely, and scrutinizing the Locust. “I say, I have lost my song, and want you to sing for me again. Will you, or will you not?” Then he paused.
“Look here, are you going to sing for me or not?” continued the Coyote, getting angry.
No reply.
The Coyote stretched out his nose, wrinkled up his lips, and snarled: “Look here, do you see my teeth? Well, I’ll ask you just four times more to sing for me, and if you don’t sing then, I’ll snap you up in a hurry, I tell you. Will—you—sing—for me? Once. Will you sing—for me? Twice. Two more times! Look out! Will you sing for me? Are you a fool? Do you see my teeth? Only once more! Will—you—sing—for me?”
No reply.
“Well, you are a fool!” yelled the Coyote, unable to restrain himself longer, and making a quick jump, he snapped the Locust skin off of the bough, and bit it so hard that it crushed and broke the teeth in the middle of his jaw, driving some of them so far down in his gums that you could hardly see them, and crowding the others out so that they were regular tusks. The Coyote dropped the stone, rolled in the sand, and howled and snarled and wriggled with pain. Then he got up and shook his head, and ran away with his tail between his legs. So excessive was his pain that at the first brook he came to he stooped down to lap up water in order to alleviate it, and he there beheld what you and I see in the mouths of every Coyote we ever catch,—that the teeth back of the canines are all driven down, so that you can see only the points of them, and look very much broken up.