66 AMERICAN GAME BIRD SHOOTING 
rying on their own backs crates of fruits, vegetables, 
hand-made pottery and other simple wares. All were 
pushing forward, eager to take part in the keenly rel- 
ished pleasures of petty chaffering, which would enable 
them to return home with a few decimos knotted in 
the ends of their sashes. Some of the men saluted me 
with a polite ‘Buenos dias, sefior,’ but I noted that their 
conversation was carried on in the Aztec tongue, as 
spoken by their fathers centuries ago. 
“Once free of the last houses, a convenient opening 
in the fence was soon found, and I crossed into a great 
field, which reached for miles down the broad, open 
valley. Areas covered with wheat and corn stubble 
indicated the character of the last crops, while farther 
away broad belts of brilliant green sugar-cane were in 
vivid contrast to the dry browns and yellows of the 
general surface. The sun was shining brightly, and 
the fresh, balmy air seemed full of life-giving power. 
The musical notes of meadow-larks were heard at in- 
tervals, and on one side of the valley flocks of red- 
winged blackbirds were swirling back and forth over 
some small marshy spots grown up with tules. Through 
the valley bottom flowed a little stream of clear, spark- 
ling water, which, before reaching the distant shore of 
the Pacific, runs a wild course through the mountain 
gorges of Guerrero. Behind me arose the mysterious 
pyramid of Cholula, crowned by a white-walled chapel, 
which now occupies the place of ancient sacrifice. Over 
to my right stood the gigantic form of the Smoking 
Mountain—hoary old Popocatepetl—with the gleaming 
