The Voice of the Mountain.

The old man Popocatepetl was seated on a high rock with his white mantle about his shoulders. He looked at the sky, he looked at the sea, he looked at the land—nowhere could he see any food. And he was very hungry, too.

Who can understand the agony of a creature whose stomach is as large as a thousand churches, when this same stomach is as empty as a broken water jar?

He looked longingly at some island in the sea. “Ah, those flat cakes! If I had them.” He stared at storm-clouds in the sky. “Ah, what a drink is there.” But the King of Everything, you know, had forbidden the old man Popocatepetl to move at all, because he feared that every footprint would make a great hole in the land. So the old fellow was obliged to sit still and wait for his food to come within reach. Any one who has tried this plan knows what intervals lie between meals.

Once his friend, the little eagle, flew near, and Popocatepetl called to him. “Ho, tiny bird, come and consider with me as to how I shall be fed.”

The little eagle came and spread his legs apart and considered manfully, but he could do nothing with the situation. “You see,” he said, “this is no ordinary hunger which one goat will suffice—”

Popocatepetl groaned an assent.

“—but it is an enormous affair,” continued the little eagle, “which requires something like a dozen stars. I don’t see what can be done unless we get that little creature of the earth—that little animal with two arms, two legs, one head, and a very brave air, to invent something. He is said to be very wise.”