Zuñi Folk Tales

by Frank Hamilton Cushing

THE PRAIRIE-DOGS AND THEIR PRIEST, THE BURROWING-OWL

ONCE, long, long ago, there stood in Prairie-dog Land a large Prairie-dog village. Prairie-dog Land is south of Zuñi, beyond Grease Mountain; and in the middle of that country, which is one of our smaller meadows, stands a mountain, which is a little mound. All round about the base of this mountain were the sky-holes and door-mounds and pathways of the grandfathers of the Prairie-dogs. In the very top of the mount was the house of an old Burrowing-owl and his wife.

One summer it rained and it rained and it rained, so that the fine fields of mitäliko (wild portulaca) were kept constantly fresh, and the Prairie-dogs had unfailing supplies of this, their favorite food. They became fat and happy, and gloried in the rain-storms that had produced such an abundant harvest for them. But still it kept raining, until by-and-by, when they descended to their fields of mitäliko, they found their feet were wet, which they did not like any more than Prairie-dogs like it today.

Now, you know that in some parts of the meadow of Prairie-dog Land are little hollows, in which the water collects when it rains hard. Just in these places were the fields of mitäliko. And still it rained and rained, until finally only the tops of the plants appeared above the waters.

Then the Prairie-dogs began to curse the rain and to fall off in flesh, for they could no longer go to the fields to collect food, and the stores in their granaries were running low. At last they grew very hungry and lean and could hardly get about, for it rained and rained day after day, so that they dare not go away from their holes, and their stores were all gone.

The old ones among the Prairie-dogs, the grandfathers, called a great council; three or four of them came out of their houses, stood up on the mounds in front of their sky-holes, and called out “Wek wek,—wek wek,—wek wek,—wek wek!” in shrill, squeaky voices, so that the women and children in the holes round about exclaimed: “Goodness, gracious! the old ones are calling a council!” And everybody trooped to the council, which was gathered round the base of the Burrowing-owl’s mountain.

“Now,” said the chief spokesman or counsellor, “you see those wretched rainers keep dropping water until our fields of mitäliko are flooded. They ought to know that we are short of leg, and that we can’t go into the lakes to gather food, and here we are starving. Our women are dying, our children are crying, and we can scarcely go from door to door. Now, what is to be done? How can we stop the rain?—that is the question.”

They talked and talked; they devised many plans, which were considered futile, most of them having been tried already. At last a wise old gray-cheeked fellow suggested that it would be well to apply to their grandfather, the Burrowing-owl, who lived in the top of the mountain.

“Hear! hear!” cried the council in one voice,—whereupon the old man who had spoken was chosen as messenger to the Burrowing-owl.

He climbed to the top of the mountain, with many a rest, and at last got near the doorway, and sitting down at a respectful distance, raised himself on his haunches, folded his hands across his breast, then cried out: “Wek wek,—wek wek!”