The evening star moved slowly away and smiled in silence.
At the next sundown Coyote mounted the hilltop again, and again called to the star. This time the evening star answered in the soft still voice that stars use on summer nights: "No, Coyote. You must remain on earth. Great as you are, you could not stand the pace of the stars."
But Coyote would not be content. Every night he whined and howled and craved and entreated, until at last the evening star became weary of his prayers.
"Well, jump on and be quick about it," it said, in the keen brisk voice that stars use in frost time.
It approached the hilltop a moment and then glided off. Coyote leaped and barely caught hold of it with his front paws. The star began whirling through space so fast that poor Coyote could not draw himself up onto its surface. He had to exert all his strength to hold on at all.
The star whirled along through the coldest regions. Coyote's paws became numb and frozen. At last they could not feel any longer, and he tumbled to the earth. It took him ten snows to get back, and then he fell so hard that he was flattened out as thin as a hazel bough.
