The Singing Scoutmaster: Coyote and the Talking Tree

One warm afternoon, Coyote, the ever-curious and mischievous trickster, wandered aimlessly through the thick forest. The sun filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the ground as he trotted along, his mind filled with thoughts of his next prank or scheme. Suddenly, a voice called out, breaking the silence of the woods. "Coyote! Come here!" the voice echoed.

Coyote stopped in his tracks, his ears twitching as he looked around in confusion. He saw no one—no animals, no humans—just the tall trees standing silently in the forest. "Who's there?" he called back warily, his eyes darting left and right. "Show yourself!"

"Over here, you silly trickster!" the voice called again, filled with playful laughter. Coyote turned around and, to his utter surprise, realized that the voice was coming from a tall, sturdy tree standing by the edge of a clearing. Its bark was rough and gnarled, and its thick branches swayed gently in the breeze.

"A talking tree?" Coyote exclaimed, his eyes widening in disbelief. "I must be dreaming!" He rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times, but the tree remained there, its leaves rustling softly as if in amusement.

"No, you're not dreaming," the tree replied in a deep, calm voice. "I've been watching you for a long time, Coyote. I know many secrets—secrets that even you, the great trickster, don't know." The tree's words were slow and deliberate, each syllable vibrating through the air like the hum of a drum. Coyote's ears perked up, his interest piqued.

"Secrets, you say?" Coyote murmured, stepping closer to the tree, his head tilted in curiosity. "What kind of secrets?"

The tree's branches creaked as it leaned slightly forward, as if whispering a great truth. "I can tell you where to find food, water, and shelter—anything you want to know!" it said. "I've seen where the best berries grow, where the sweetest water flows, and where the coziest dens are hidden. All you have to do is ask."

At the mention of food, Coyote's stomach growled loudly. He hadn't eaten since morning, and the thought of a good meal made his mouth water. "Tell me where I can find food right now!" he demanded eagerly, his eyes glinting with hunger.

The tree chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed through the clearing. "Patience, Coyote," it said. "First, you have to do something for me. Bring me a bucket of water from the river to quench my thirst."

Coyote frowned, his tail twitching impatiently. He wasn't used to taking orders, especially from a tree, but the promise of food was too tempting to resist. Grumbling to himself, he trotted down to the river and filled a bucket with cool, clear water. He lugged it back to the tree and poured the water at its roots.

"Good, good!" the tree said, its leaves rustling as if in satisfaction. "Now, bring me some of those tasty berries from the bush over there."

Coyote's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he was too hungry to argue. He gathered a pile of plump, juicy berries and placed them at the base of the tree. "There. Now, where's my food?" he demanded, his voice edged with irritation. His paws tapped impatiently against the ground as he glared up at the tree.

But the tree didn't answer. Instead, it began to shake and quiver, its branches trembling. A strange sound filled the air—a deep, rumbling laugh that seemed to come from the very core of the tree itself. The sound grew louder and louder until it echoed through the forest, making the leaves flutter and the birds take flight.

"You foolish Coyote!" the tree bellowed, its laughter rolling like thunder. "I'm not a magical tree—I'm just a tree! And you've been doing all this for nothing!"

Coyote's jaw dropped, and his fur bristled with shock and anger. He had been tricked—by an ordinary tree! His eyes blazed with fury, but he could see the humor in the situation. He, the great trickster, who had outsmarted so many, had been fooled by a silent, unmoving tree. The irony of it all made his tail droop in defeat.

"You've made a fool out of me," Coyote growled, his voice low and frustrated. He stamped his paw on the ground, glaring at the tree, but deep down, he couldn't help but feel a grudging sense of respect. "I won't forget this, tree!" he barked, and with a flick of his tail, he turned and ran off into the woods, his pride wounded.

As he dashed through the trees, Coyote's anger began to fade, replaced by a reluctant smile. The more he thought about it, the funnier it seemed. "I've been out-tricked by a tree," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Who would've thought?" Soon, he found himself chuckling, then laughing outright. It was a rare day when Coyote got a taste of his own medicine, and the lesson was one he wouldn't soon forget.

From that day on, whenever Coyote passed through the forest, he would glance warily at the trees, his ears twitching for any sign of voices. He never talked to another tree again, wary of being fooled twice. But deep down, he couldn't help but admire the cleverness of that old tree, even if it was just an ordinary one. And whenever he told the story to other animals, he would laugh and say, "Never underestimate the power of a silent trickster!"

The tale of Coyote and the Talking Tree spread among the animals of the Southwestern tribes, and they, too, learned a valuable lesson—that even the great Coyote could be outwitted by something as simple as a tree. It became a favorite story around the campfire, reminding everyone that pride and arrogance could lead even the cleverest of tricksters to be tricked themselves.