Chico of The Andes 1.2

CHRISTINE VON HAGEN
High in the rugged Andes of Ecuador, ten-year-old Chico

works hard and lives happily with his grandfather and his
pet bear, Chan. By firelight, Grandfather tells Chico
amazing stories about the Inca and the other ancient people
who once inhabited their land. Chico has always felt a
close connection to the mountains, his tierra—that is, until
he discovers he is an orphan, found out on the moors, and
that his grandfather is merely a kind stranger who took
Chico in as a baby. Shocked and confused, Chico
determines to travel to the city, leaving behind his beloved
mountains, to track down his lost family and discover who
he truly is.
SKU 384.4 For use with the Level 5 Language Arts course
By CHRISTINE VON HAGEN
Illustrated by ZHENYA GAY
Cover illustration by Anna Speshilova
Cover design by Phillip Colhouer
First published in 1943
This unabridged version has updated grammar and spelling.
© 2022 The Good and the Beautiful, LLC
goodandbeautiful.com
CONTENTS
Chico �� 1
Without a Name� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �14
Search Through the Past� � � � � � � � � � � �� 27
Search� �� 46
A Discovery� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �51
Return�� 58
The Fine Straw Hat � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �67
How Panama Hats Came to Cuenca� � � � � � � � �80
In the Potato Field� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �87
Chico Goes to Cuenca � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �97
Cuenca �� 105
In the Night � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � 118
The Panama Hat Fair � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �� 122
In the Cathedral � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � 131
The Fiesta� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � 142
The Discovery� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � 154
Chico Decides� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � 164
Return to the Paramos� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � 172
Glossary
achiote—a shrub or small tree native to tropical South
America
adiós—bye
ai—oh (often spelled “ay”)
alpargatas—espadrilles (a sandal usually made of
canvas or cotton, with a rope sole)
alto—stop
amigo—friend
anda—go; walk
aquí estamos—here we are
arriero—muleteer; a person who drives mules
buenos días—good morning
caramba—gosh; boy; whoa
Casa Americana—American House
centavo—cent; penny
cuidado—watch out; be careful
dueño—owner
el Americano—the American
empanadas—individual sweet or savory filled pastries
es posible—it’s possible
fiesta—party
gracias—thanks; thank you
hermana—sister
hola—hello
huérfano—orphan
Jesu Cristo—Jesus Christ
joven—young; young person
la profesora—the teacher
llapingachos—fried patties made with mashed potatoes
and annatto (made from the seed of the achiote)
loco—crazy in a foolish or wild sense
mamacita—dear mommy
mamita—mommy
mil gracias—many thanks
muchas gracias—thank you very much

mula—mule
muy bien—very good
niño—child
olla—pot
padre—father; priest
padrecito—dear father
padrino—godfather
paja—straw; hay
paja toquilla—straw from the toquilla palm
peluquería—barbershop or hair salon
perdón—pardon me; forgive me
pobrecito—poor thing
poncho—a blanket with a slit in the middle so that
it can be slipped over the head and worn as a
sleeveless garment
por favor—please
presidente—president
qué linda—how beautiful; how lovely

qué pasa—what’s going on; what’s up
qué quieres—what do you want
rápido—fast
sala—living room
señor—sir
señora—ma’am
sí—yes
sí, pues—well, of course
sucre—cent; penny
sus mercedes—your graces; my good men
tambo—a place to provide food and shelter
tía—aunt
tierra—land; earth
vamos—let’s go
vaya con Dios—go with God
venga—come on
viejito—old person; old friend

One
CHICO
“Old Man! Old Man, here he comes! He is here!” a

boyish voice shouted.
A young boy with a round, brown-skinned face
and short, stocky body jumped up from the doorsill
of a small stone house. His brown, almost black, eyes
sparkled as he leaned inside the door and shouted.
Without waiting for an answer, he started to run
down the narrow trail toward the distant sound.
An old man, his faded red poncho pushed back over
one shoulder, came to the door and peered out of
smoke-filled eyes across the empty, treeless moors.
“Who is coming? What are you talking about?” he
called after the flying figure in the white trousers and
tattered poncho.
Then, as he listened, there came through the sunlit
silence of the Paramos the sharp “clink” of a hoof
2 Chico of the Andes
striking stone. The old man smiled, and his face

crinkled into a thousand tiny lines.
“Don Ernesto!” he exclaimed to himself. By this
time, the boy was far away.
A line of mules climbed up over the hill. One after
another they came into sight, each loaded with two
big sacks. Behind the last one walked a strong, sturdy
man, dressed in white trousers, a poncho, and a straw
hat. In his hand he carried a stick, which he shook at
the animals as he shouted, “Anda, mulas—get on.”
When he saw the boy waiting for him on the rocky
trail, the arriero waved his stick in greeting. A broad
smile spread over his square, weather-beaten face, and
he called, “Hola—hola, Chico. How are you? And how
is the old man?”
“Well, Don Ernesto. We are both well,” the boy
answered, dancing up and down happily.
With encouraging shouts, Chico helped the
muleteer drive his animals on up the trail. At the
grass-thatched stone hut, the mules stopped and
waited patiently to be unloaded, their tired heads
drooping almost to the ground. The old man and the
muleteer embraced each other.
“Well, and how are you, Don Ernesto?” asked the
old man. “We had given you up this year. Is it not so,
Chico?”
“Sí, sí,” the boy laughed. “We thought you were not
CHICO 3
coming at all, Don Ernesto.”

“You cannot be rid of an old mountain arriero so
easily, Don Fernando,” exclaimed Ernesto loudly. “No,
things did not go well with my mules. Their hooves
broke off from so much rain, and I had to wait until
they grew back again. But I have a fine cargo here for
the mines at Zaruma, so I have lost nothing,” he said,
slapping the bulging sacks of corn.
The man blew out his breath in a whistle and
wiped his face with his sleeve. Then he turned toward
the boy and looked at him carefully: first the tough,
bare feet and sturdy legs, then the strong little body
and the brown face and merry dark eyes. He saw the
deep cleft in the firm chin and the straight black hair,
which kept falling over his eyes. As usual, when he
was excited, Chico was tugging at his stained trousers
as though he thought they would fall off. The arriero’s
eyes twinkled.
“Well, Chico, you are still small, eh? You never
grow, it seems.” He winked at the old man.
Chico laughed. This was an old joke between them.
Because his name meant little, Don Ernesto pretended
that he never grew. But Grandfather was always
complaining that he grew so fast that he could not
keep him in trousers.
Just then, Chan, Chico’s pet bear, wandered out of
the house. He stopped to stretch his short legs and
yawned until they could see down into his pink throat.
Then he turned his head to one side and stared out of
his fur-encircled eyes. The dark fur made him look as
if he had spectacles on, and his name, most appropri-
ately, meant “spectacled bear.”
“Caramba! What is that?” Don Ernesto jumped
back as though he were afraid of the little animal.
“This is Chan,” Chico answered proudly. He
stooped down and picked up the little bear. Chan
stuck out a rough pink tongue and licked the boy’s
cheek.
“Where did you get him?” The arriero touched the
bear with one finger as though he expected him to bite.
“I found him on the Paramos,” Chico said excitedly.
“One day, when I was out there, I heard a crying
noise behind a rock. When I looked, there was Chan.
Oh, he was wild then.” The boy held up one arm and
showed a red scar. “When I tried to pick him up,
he scratched me and bit my hand. But I wrapped
my poncho around him and carried him home. He is
tame now and follows me everywhere. Does he not,
Grandfather?”
“Sí, sí. He is not a bad little fellow,” the old man
answered. The arriero resumed his conversation with
the old man. He was eager to tell him of his hard trip
up the mountain.
“Ai-ya. What a trip! Never have I seen such trails.
CHICO 5
The mud came to here.” He measured half up his leg.

“And the rain, I thought it would never end.”
“It was that way here for a while. But now the
weather is fine.” The old man waved toward the sky
that looked like a blue bowl turned upside down on
the towering crags of the Andes. “The trail on the
other side of the mountains will be fine,” he added.
Chico was as polite as Grandfather had taught him
to be. While the men talked, he stood by quietly. Still,
he could not help glancing out of the corner of his eye
at the saddlebags, stuffed with packages, that hung
over the cargo of the last mule. Usually, Don Ernesto
brought him a present from Cuenca.
At last, Chico could stand his curiosity no longer.
He slipped to the saddlebag and prodded it. He could
feel something hard and something soft.
“Chico.” Don Ernesto’s voice boomed over the quiet
Paramos.
Chico jumped guiltily.
The two men laughed.
“Do me the favor of bringing that bag here, Chico,”
called the muleteer.
Chico stood on tiptoe to pull down the double bags,
woven of white cotton and decorated with little colored
figures of animals. He carried them to the house.
Don Ernesto made a great fuss over the packages.
He knew how lonesome it must be for these two who
“Ai-ya. What a trip! Never have I seen such trails.”
CHICO 7
lived high in the Andes, far from any town. He always

looked forward to staying the night with them and
taking a present, especially for Chico.
First, he pulled out some round brown cakes of
sugar wrapped in dry corn husks. He handed these to
the old man and said, “Here is something to sweeten
your coffee, old man.”
Then he pulled out a long bundle and gave it to
Chico. His eyes twinkled as he said, “Some fine new
straw to weave your hats, Chico. Plenty of it.”
Chico made a face, and Don Ernesto laughed.
But Grandfather frowned. He did not like it that
the boy should take no interest in hat weaving. True,
the boy worked at it, but his thoughts were always
somewhere else.
Don Ernesto pulled out a pair of alpargatas, white
cotton sandals with rope soles. Chico smiled. That
was a real present. His old ones had fallen apart
months ago.
Then there was a small book with colored pictures
in it. Chico took it eagerly. Grandfather would teach
him to read it.
When he saw the paper package of hard pink
candy, he exclaimed, “Gracias, Don Ernesto. Muchas
gracias.”
Chico never had enough sweet things to eat.
When they had their presents, Grandfather turned
toward the house. He paused to pick up the half-

woven hat on which Chico had been working when
Don Ernesto arrived. Then he went inside to make
coffee for his tired friend.
Chico helped to unload the mules and pile the
sacks and saddles under the long thatch of the roof.
When the mules were free, they wriggled their skin
back and forth and then lay down to roll on the hard
earth.
Grandfather called from the house, “The coffee is
ready, amigo. Chico, take the mules out and hobble
them before it gets dark.”
Chico nodded and picked up the rope on the lead
mule. He started back down the trail that led across
the Paramos. Halfway down it, he turned up the hill
and away from the trail and led them toward the place
where the ichu grass grew longest.
On the hillside, Chico looked back at the little
house crouched close to the gray-green earth. Behind
it was a small potato field, the green leaves and purple
flowers waving in the afternoon wind. All around the
lonely house rose the high rocky mountain peaks,
which cut jaggedly into the blue sky. Below them,
spread out like a fan, was the treeless, barren Paramos.
The little figure of Chan trotted down the trail.
Chico waved the end of the rope at him.
“Go home, Chan. Go home,” he called.
CHICO 9
But Chan paid no attention. Keeping out of reach

of the rope, he circled the boy and ran after the mules.
In a few seconds, he had them scattered all over the
hillside.
Chico made angry sounds at the bear as he ran
after the animals. Just when he wanted to get through
quickly and go back to listen to the men talking, Chan
had to be a bother!
As soon as Chico caught a mule, he tied its lead
rope between its legs to hobble it. Not that it would
make much difference, for before morning the mules
would have hobbled far away.
Chan lost interest in the mules and went off to
explore the long ichu grass. Suddenly he began to
whine and bark as he did when he was excited. Chico
looked toward him.
“What is it, Chan?”
The bear often found something. Sometimes,
however, he just barked to make his master pay more
attention to him.
Chico walked toward him. When he reached the
tall clump of grass, there was a sudden whir of wings.
A little bird, no larger than Chico’s smallest finger,
fluttered out of the grass. Although it was tiny, it was
covered with golden-green feathers that made it gleam
like a jewel in the sunlight. A long tail, five times as
long as its body, streamed behind.
“Qué linda!” the boy exclaimed.

Chico watched the little hummingbird, its tiny
wings beating the air. He thought of how Grandfa-
ther had told him that once, many hundreds of years
ago, the rulers of the ancient people of the Andes
had made long cloaks from the tiny feathers of the
hummingbird. It made him feel sad to think of so
many little birds killed just to make a cloak.
But still, the bird fluttered close by. Chico hurried
toward the grass and parted it. Just as he had thought!
A tiny, tiny nest hung near the top of the coarse grass.
Two little eggs were in it.
Chan had been whining excitedly. Now he ran up
and began to scratch at the grass.
“For shame, Chan,” Chico scolded him. “Do you
want to tear up the nest?”
That was just what the little bear wanted to do.
Chico caught hold of his pet. How could he keep
him away until he had finished hobbling the mules?
The piece of rope he held in his hand gave him an
idea. He tied the rope around the bear’s neck. Then,
walking a good distance away so that the mother bird
would not be frightened, he fastened the bear to a
clump of grass.
“Ha ha,” he laughed down at the disappointed
Chan, “that will keep you from hurting the poor little
bird.”
CHICO 11
Chan looked unhappy, but when he saw that Chico

was serious, he curled up and went to sleep.
As Chico walked back to his work, the little bird
fluttered in front of him. It hovered for a moment
above the nest, and then, with a whir of wings, flew
into the grass. Chico nodded contentedly. Perhaps
when the baby birds were hatched, he could look at
them.
The boy hummed a tuneless song as he worked with
the mules. At last, he finished and stood up, rubbing
his hands together. He glanced up at the mountains.
The western sky was a bright orange. A white mass of
fog crept through the lower passes. Blown onward by
the wind, it crept down the valley toward Chico.
Chico shuddered and started to run toward the
house. It was good that he had finished when he did.
He did not want to be caught in the Paramos fog.
Chico was afraid of this mist. He did not mind it
if he were inside the little house, safe and warm by
the fire. But if, as had happened once or twice, he was
caught on the moors when the mist came down, he
would start to shake and shiver. He did not know why.
Once he had asked Grandfather about it, but the old
man had only mumbled something under his breath
and turned away.
The fog was still behind him when he reached the
bottom of the hill. He could get home easily now.
Then he stopped and slapped his forehead with one

hand. He had left Chan up there on the hill! For a
second, Chico paused. Should he go back? He would
surely be caught in the fog if he did. But the bear was
tied, and if there were a storm, he might die on the
Paramos.
With his heart pounding from fear, Chico turned
back again. He reached the bear and untied him while
the moor was still clear. As he started back, carrying
Chan, the fog fell like a white blanket. One minute he
could see around him, and the next, the mist covered
every rock and blade of grass.
Chico shivered as he ran. He could not stop
shaking. There was nothing to fear, he knew, for he
would be home in a moment. It was just that the
white fog seemed to creep into his backbone and turn
it to jelly.
When Chico reached the house, the fear left him.
He waited outside to gather himself together. He
would be ashamed to let Don Ernesto see him so
frightened.
As he stood there, pushing his hair back from his
face and tugging at his trousers, he heard the men’s
voices inside. They were arguing again. Chico laughed
softly. Every time Don Ernesto came, he and the old
man argued about something. Still, they were the best
of friends.
CHICO 13
Then, as he stood there, Chico heard his own name.

The two men were talking about him. Chico listened
and heard words that would change his whole life.
Two
WITHOUT A NAME
The voices rose and fell. Grandfather’s was like the

high thin squeak of an ancient tree, but Don Ernesto’s
boomed even when he tried to keep it low. Chico,
as he listened, trembled as though the cold Paramos
wind passed through him.
“No, señor,” came the squeaky voice, “the boy must
have a trade. Is it not bad enough to be an orphan,
with no family of his own?”
“But if he went to school, Viejito—” boomed Don
Ernesto.
“School—pah! That is for rich people. When Chico
can weave hats and earn his own living, there will be
time for school. I shall not live forever, and who will
care for the poor orphaned lad then?”
A great buzzing came into Chico’s ears. He could
feel the blood leave his face and drain away. For a
WITHOUT A NAME 15
moment he swayed. He caught hold of the hut and

held. Then, in a rush, his face flamed up. He put his
hands up to his ears as if to cut off the sound of voices.
If only he could forget what he had heard!
He, Chico, was an orphan. He had no family, no
name, not even a home. Chico leaned down and
touched the hard earth. Was the Paramos that he
loved so much—was that not his land? Why, even the
condor had his nest—the hummingbird his home on
the broad Paramos. But not he, not Chico.
Who was this old man whom he called “Grand-
father”? A sob rose and caught in the boy’s throat,
choking him. Grandfather was not his grandfather at
all.
Chico was nobody. In all the world, there was no
one who knew him. For a few moments, Chico was
too stunned to move. Then—with a rapid movement,
he burst through the doorway of the house. He took
the two men by surprise. Grandfather’s old eyes
glanced reproachfully at the arriero as if to say, “See
what you have done now with your loud voice.” Poor
Don Ernesto’s round, flat face looked confused.
Chico stood between the two men, his feet spread
apart, and glanced from one to the other. In a low
voice he asked, “Grandfather, who am I?”
“Eh, eh, who are you?” the old man faltered. “Why,
you are Chico. Who else?” He tried to laugh.
“I heard what you and Don Ernesto said, Grandfa-

ther. Who am I, then, if I am not your grandson?” The
boy’s clear brown eyes begged for the truth.
The old man gave up pretending. With a sorrow-
fully lined face, he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder
and said, “Muy bien, Chico. I will not try to keep it
from you. You have heard what was not intended for
your ears. I am sorry. But perhaps it is as well. Some
day you would have to know.”
Chico shifted his feet and turned his head to one
side. He waited for the old man to go on.
“But not now, my boy. Now we are hungry. Think
what a long trip Don Ernesto has made and how
empty he must be. Later, when we have finished our
meal.” Grandfather tried to make his voice light.
Chico said not a word but crouched on his bare
heels in front of the little fire. He arranged the tiny
sticks of wood and piled on some dry ichu grass. Then,
leaning down, he filled his mouth with air and blew
on the coals. After three tries the wood and grass burst
into flames.
Then Chico moved to a corner in back of the fire
and sat down. Crouching there, he looked around the
little house. There was only one room. Above its gray
stone walls rose the peaked straw roof, blackened by
years of wood smoke. The floor was of earth, packed as
hard as stone by the constant passing of feet. On each
WITHOUT A NAME 17
side of the room, at the far end away from the door
and the fire, there were two narrow beds. The frames
of these were set into the floor itself. Across the tops,
laced strips of rawhide made a springy bed. On each
bed was a faded wool poncho.
The only other items of furniture in the house were
two wooden stools and an old chest in which Grand-
father kept his things. From pegs set between the
stones of the wall hung bits of rope and old bridles. A
string of garlic and the brown sugar cakes which Don
Ernesto had brought hung from the roof. On the floor
near the fire were half a dozen clay pots, black as night
from the smoke of the fire. That was all there was in
the house except the boy, the two men, Chan, and old
Inca, Grandfather’s pet rooster.
Chico sighed and shook his head in bewilderment.
Not even this house, which he remembered from the
time he was old enough to remember anything at
all—not even this house was his home.
The fire had died down to a steady flame. Grand-
father threw a handful of potatoes into a clay pot and
set it over the fire. In another pot he heated water and
then reached up for the piece of dried meat which
Don Ernesto had brought. This was to have been a
surprise for the boy whom they both loved, for it was
not often that these two mountain dwellers had meat.
But there was no use trying to surprise him now.
Old Grandfather knew how the boy felt. He

remembered, and he knew that Chico did too, the
stories he had told the boy in front of the fire on the
cold, misty nights. He had tried to explain to this lad,
to whom he had been both father and mother, some
of the ways of his people. He had told him that no
matter how far away a man lived from the earth on
which he and his people had been born, at some time
in his life he must return to that land for strength. The
land, the earth where his people lived, was like his skin
or the blood in his veins. It fed him. There, too, grew
the plants that would cure his illnesses. Sometimes,
when a child was ill, the whole family, with old people
and babies, set off on a pilgrimage to the land of their
birth. It might be but an hour away, or perhaps several
days’ journey. Still, they must go. But what if, like
Chico, one did not know one’s own land?
Don Ernesto and Grandfather began to eat heartily
of the rich soup and boiled potatoes. Then when they
felt the boy’s bright eyes on them, they could hardly
choke down the food and, at last, set their bowls aside.
Then each filled a gourd with strong black coffee,
sliced a few slivers of brown sugar into it, and sat back
to drink in a leisurely fashion.
Chico looked from one to the other and waited. The
old man sipped his hot coffee and then began to talk
softly and thoughtfully.
WITHOUT A NAME 19
“First of all, Chico,” he said, “you must not be so sad

at what you have learned. Are you different now than
you were this morning? Is your hair curly, or has your
skin turned green? Does not your heart beat, and do
not your eyes still see? Well, then you are still the same
Chico. A name is not so important. It does not come
with you when you are born, written on your chest,
like writing on a paper. It is given to you by someone,
and we, Don Ernesto and I, have given you the name
of Chico.”
The old man looked at the boy triumphantly. Don
Ernesto nodded his head up and down in agreement.
But Chico looked away into the dark corner of the
room.
Grandfather sighed and went on, “Here is how it
happened: a long time ago—let me see—you are now
almost ten, and when Don Ernesto found you, we
decided you must be almost two years old. Yes, it was
eight years ago.”
“Found me!” Chico exclaimed.
Don Ernesto stood up to stretch his legs. He took
one or two quick steps, his sandals, in his excitement,
slapping at his heels.
“Yes, yes, Chico,” he interrupted, “I found you.”
He came closer to the fire and knelt down, balancing
himself on the balls of his feet. “It hardly seems so
long ago. It was an afternoon just like this one—foggy
and cold. I was driving my mules up the trail from the

mines. The road was so muddy that we slipped often
and had to repack the animals many times. For that
reason we were long delayed, and before we could
arrive here at Don Fernando’s, the Paramos mist had
caught us. It poured down like a white poncho from
the mountains and hid every rock and landmark.
We could not even see the trail, which, as you know,
is faint here on the Paramos. Before we knew it, we
were wandering far off the trail, lost on these Andean
moors.”
Chico’s round face was flushed as he leaned
forward, eager to catch every word. What did the
Paramos and the mist have to do with him?
“Do not forget how frightened you were,” Grand-
father put in, tugging at his beard. “Tell him how you
were afraid the hailstorm would come while you were
lost, and drive the mules crazy, as it does so often.”
Don Ernesto glared at Grandfather and asked
petulantly, “Who found him, Old One? Who knows
the story better than I?”
“Please, please go on,” Chico barely breathed the
request.
“Well,” Ernesto boomed on, “we wandered for
a long time. I had a boy to help me then, a useless,
good-for-nothing, lazy boy, if there ever was one.”
Don Ernesto spoke angrily as he remembered the day
WITHOUT A NAME 21
eight years past. “And this boy became frightened and

began to cry. All we could hear in that heavy mist was
the sound of the mules’ hooves sucking in and out of
the mud and the wailing of that loco Segundo.
“All at once, when the wind was rising and
whistling down the valley, we almost fell over a
tumbled pile of rocks. They were not ordinary rocks
like those that lie about the moors. No, señor, they
were cut into squares, just like these.” The muleteer
waved a brown arm toward the stone wall of the hut.
Chico stirred restlessly and pulled at one ear. He
knew how long it took Don Ernesto to tell a story.
When it was just a story, he liked it, for Don Ernesto
never forgot anything. But now, when it was about
him, he did wish that he would hurry.
“These rocks seemed like a house that had fallen
in,” Don Ernesto went on. “There was enough left of
it to give us a little shelter, however, and we had time
to gather our wits. I soon decided that we were too far
to the right. It did not take me long to figure out how
I would get back on the trail.” There were few people
in Ecuador who knew the trails across the Paramos as
well as Don Ernesto did.
“We were just about to start off again when we
heard a strange sound from amongst these rocks.
It is true, it startled even me, for who would expect
to hear noises on the Paramos? But that boy,” Don
Ernesto threw up his big hands at the remembrance,

“why, I thought he would die of fright. When the cry
came again—it was like the mewing of a kitten from
beneath a blanket—I walked toward it. In the thick
white fog, it took me a long time to find the noise.
Then I came to a spot where the rocks still stood in
a sort of corner wall, which cut off the wind. And
what do you think I found?” Don Ernesto paused and
looked at Chico.
But Chico just sat and stared at Don Ernesto. His
mouth had fallen open in the way that always made
Grandfather say, “Close your mouth, and the flies will
not enter.” Both men watched the boy eagerly, and
then Don Ernesto pointed a calloused finger at him.
“You!” he exclaimed. “I found you! A little baby, not
two years old, all wrapped up snugly in a black scarf
and with a white cloth tied around your head. Oh,
how you cried when I picked you up! Soon, when you
began to get warm in my arms, you went sound asleep.”
Grandfather could keep quiet no longer. Waving his
small black pipe in the air, he went on with the story.
“When Don Ernesto brought you here, you were
so hungry that we thought we could never fill you up.
And I doubt if we could have if the old llama had not
had plenty of milk then. For what would I have in this
house to feed a baby?”
Chico looked from one to the other. In the silence,
WITHOUT A NAME 23
the burning wood in the fire snapped and shot sparks

up into the air.
“But, Don Ernesto,” he asked when the men said
no more, “was that all? How did I get there? Did you
see no one else?”
“No one.” Both men spoke together.
“I searched for signs, but I found nothing,” Don
Ernesto said slowly. “For weeks, Viejito here waited for
someone to come by and recognize you for his own.
That is why I left you with the old man. We knew that
whoever traveled this road must pass Don Fernando’s
house. But nobody ever came.”
Grandfather reached out a hand and touched the
boy. His words were spoken gently as he said, “You
see, Chico, we believe, Don Ernesto and I, that your
mother and father were lost in the Paramos fog. While
they searched for the trail, they put you down in the
most protected spot. Then they could not find it again.
“No, no,” the old man continued quickly. “I know
what you are thinking. No, they did not leave you
behind on purpose. No one who did not love their
child would have wrapped it so carefully or dressed it
so nicely. No, it is as I have said.”
“But then, my mother and my father—?” Chico
could not finish the question. But the old man
understood.
“Sí, my boy,” he sighed and bowed his head. “They
must have been lost in the mountains, in the terrible

storm that came that night. There has never been
any trace of them since, may the Lord bless and keep
them.”
Then the smoke-blackened little house was quiet,
except for the sizzling of coffee which had boiled
over on the coals. Chico knew now that he was an
orphan. He had no mother and no father. He did not
question that. When people were lost on the Paramos
overnight, they were never seen again. He himself had
seen crosses out on the moors that marked the resting
places of these unfortunates.
What more then?
There was his name. How could he grow up with no
name except that of Chico, Little One? Who were his
people? What did they do? Surely somewhere there
must be an uncle, an aunt, perhaps even a grandfather.
A tear slid down the boy’s cheek and fell on his poncho.
If only Viejito were his grandfather! Then there was
the tierra from which his mother and father had come.
That remained, if only he could find it.
The boy lifted his head almost eagerly.
“Grandfather—Old Man,” he added hastily, for
now he had no right to call Viejito his grandfather,
“was there not something to tell where we came from?
Surely there was some mark, some sign so I would
know where to search.” The boy’s voice begged the old
WITHOUT A NAME 25
man to tell him it was true, that there was someplace

where he was known, where he belonged.
The old man shook his head sadly and answered,
“Nothing, nothing, Chico. We thought of that, too,
and Don Ernesto asked in Cuenca and at Portovelo,
but no one had heard of two people with a baby who
had left on a journey. For a long time, I worried about
it, and then I decided that the good God had wanted
me to have you,” he finished wistfully, looking at the
boy who was more than a son to him.
When he had finished speaking, the old man stood
up, his stiff joints creaking as if in protest, and walked
toward the small black chest.
Opening it, he reached under his good sandals and
the tobacco and pulled out a square of folded black
cloth. Silently, he handed it to the boy.
“Here is the scarf in which you were wrapped,
Chico. It is of good quality, so your people were not
poor. It must have been your mother’s, and when it
grew cold, she wrapped you in it. Your other little
clothes are here, too.”
“Gracias, Viejito,” murmured the boy.
For a few moments, he sat quietly looking at the
black cloth. Then, slowly, he stood up and walked
toward the door of the little house.
“Where—?” began Don Ernesto. But the old man
motioned him to be quiet.
Chico opened the door and stepped outside. He

pulled the door shut and took a few steps away from
the house. Outside it was dark and cold. The fog
closed about him like a silent cloak.
The boy gently rubbed one finger over the soft,
thin wool of the scarf and then lifted it to his cheek.
Tears filled his eyes and dripped down onto the cloth.
This piece of cloth was all he had that belonged to
his mother. Somehow, with the scarf against his face,
he felt very close to her. If only the scarf could tell its
secrets to him!
Chico lifted his head and stared out toward the
fog-covered Paramos. The strange feeling of loneliness
that he always felt in the mist came over him. Now
he knew why. His eyes strained to cut through the
curtain of white. For a long time, he peered as if, could
he look but far enough, he would be able to solve the
mystery.
Out there—somewhere on the Paramos—was the
answer to his questions.
Three
SEARCH THROUGH THE PAST
Chico’s bare feet slapped the worn earth of the

mountain trail. In a steady dogtrot, he followed Don
Ernesto and the string of patient, plodding mules
across the Paramos. The morning was bright and still.
Only the arriero’s cries broke into the silence of the
moorland as he shouted to the animals, “Mula, anda—
get on mules, get on,” hurrying the reluctant beasts
onward. Don Ernesto had a long journey yet to reach
the mines of Portovelo. He had no wish to be caught
at night in the high Andes.
Chico’s thoughts were not on the mules and this
journey over the barren wastes of the Paramos. He
was remembering the night before. When he had
gone back into the little house, both men were rolled
up in their blankets and in bed. From Don Ernesto’s
side came a deep snoring, interrupted by grunts and
whistles, for not even Chico’s sorrow could keep the

tired muleteer awake for long. The old man lay silent,
his breathing light and even, and Chico did not know
whether he was asleep or not.
For a long time, Chico had tossed and turned in his
woolen poncho by the fire. Then a great idea had come
to him. Throwing off his blanket, he had crept across
the dark, cold little room to Grandfather’s side and
tugged at the old man’s sleeve.
“Eh, what? What is it?” Grandfather had
murmured, sitting up so quickly that Chico knew he
had been lying awake.
“Old Man,” he had said, “Old Man, tomorrow I
must go with Don Ernesto. He can show me where
he lost the trail that time. I have thought and thought,
and I know that I must search out the place where I
was found. I feel here,” Chico laid one hand on his
chest, “that I shall find something there.”
Grandfather was silent. Inside his old head, the
thoughts raced around and around.
“But, Chico, there is nothing,” he had argued. “Don
Ernesto has told you how he searched. There was
nothing.”
A closed, stubborn look came over Chico’s usually
happy face. This was something he must do.
In the darkened room, Grandfather had seen
Chico’s face and knew what he was thinking. Before
SEARCH THROUGH THE PAST 29
the boy could answer, he had said, “Very well, then, my

boy. So be it. You may go. If you feel it in your heart,
then perhaps there is some truth to it. But be careful.
The Paramos are dangerous, as you well know. Now it
is late. Go to sleep,” and the old man had turned his
face to the stone wall. Chico had crept back to the fire,
rolled up once more in his blanket, and in a moment
was sound asleep.
In the morning Don Ernesto had objected and
shouted, “No. Do you think I want you to be lost
again? That place is far away, and to make the trip in
one day and search for the stone hut would be more
than you could do. No, I say!”
Chico had glanced anxiously at the old man, who
then began to speak to Don Ernesto in a soft voice.
Chico had grabbed up his hat and ran out into the
dark Paramos to get the mules. Perhaps Grandfather
could persuade him.
It had taken a long time to find the animals. For
an hour Chico had run up and down the valley and
through icy streams, rounding them up. By the time
he had them all together, his hands were red and sore.
At last, he had led them back to the hut.
As he had worked, throwing the saddle blankets
and wooden pack saddles on the mules’ backs, he
had glanced anxiously toward the house. Then Don
Ernesto had come out.
“Muy bien, Chico,” he had said, his breath blowing

white on the chill air as he talked. “You can go with
me. I think it is foolish, for you will find nothing. But
if you must, you must.”
An hour later the mules were loaded and ready
to go. Still the two men and the boy had sat around
the fire sipping their hot coffee and munching boiled
kernels of corn. They were waiting for the first gray
light of dawn to show them the way.
Then, at last, they had started. Grandfather had
handed Chico a bundle of boiled potatoes and corn.
With his arm across the boy’s shoulder, he had looked
down at him and said, “Take care, my boy. Be sure to
start back early.”
“Sí, Viejito,” Chico had answered. With the bundle
of food slapping at his thigh, he ran after the mules,
which had already started on their long journey.
Now it was late in the morning. The bright sunlight
shone over the gray-green Paramos. But this Paramos
was strange to Chico. It was even more wild and
lonely than his own. In all the miles of rolling land
perched on top of the world, there was not a tree.
Even the coarse ichu grass was scant. A cold wind
blew down from the higher peaks.
For the last half hour, Don Ernesto had been
grumbling under his breath. Whenever Chico spoke
to him, he answered sharply. Chico knew this was
because he was worried. The man was afraid to have

him start off over this desolate land alone. But Chico
was not afraid. If only he could find the place, then
perhaps he would be happy again and feel that he
really “belonged.”
“Alto, mulas, alto,” Don Ernesto called, then ran up
ahead to grab the rope on the lead mule, stopping the
caravan.
“Here it is, Chico. See the stones where I marked
it?” He pointed to three flat rocks, piled one on top
of the other. “Now you must go off to the left there.
Somewhere amidst those little hills is where I found
you.”
Chico nodded his head and slowly started away
from the trail.
“Now, remember to start back early,” Don Ernesto
called after him.
“I will, Padrino. Never fear. Mil gracias. I will see
you when you return next trip,” he answered.
Chico hurried his step and soon was trotting across
the moors. For a while he heard Don Ernesto’s shouts
to the mules. Then, as he passed behind a small spur
of rocks, the sound was cut off. All was silent. He was
alone on the Paramos.
For the first time, Chico realized what he had done.
The idea had seemed so simple, at first, that he had
paid no attention to Don Ernesto. But now the trail
seemed longer than he had thought, and he was alone

and far from his house.
With his head thrown far back, Chico stared at the
rugged mountain peaks which enclosed the Paramos.
Carefully, he memorized them, first facing away from
the trail, then turning toward it. In this way he would
know how to find his way back. Then he looked
carefully over the broad plain that stretched before
him. All the rocks looked the same. Chico’s face
wrinkled in a frown. It would take him all day running
back and forth over the moor to search them all,
and he would still not be through. If he were to find
the special pile of stones of which Don Ernesto had
spoken, he must make a plan.
Looking down the valley, Chico noticed that it was
widest near the trail. There it spread out into miles and
miles of Paramos. At the far end, however, it bumped
against another mountain, and he could see that the
valley rose gently to a small hill. From there he would
be able to look out over the whole Paramos.
With his mind made up, Chico set off at a jog trot.
As he ran, he hummed a mournful Indian tune, such
as Grandfather often did. He would not admit it, but
this lonely Paramos frightened him.
He had not gone far when something broke the
stillness. There was a scuffling, panting sound behind
him. With his heart pounding, he whirled about. For
a moment he saw nothing. Then, from behind a stone

boulder, a weary little figure appeared. Panting and
with pink tongue hanging from his mouth, Chan
scrambled toward his master.
“Chan! What are you doing here?” Chico was so
surprised he almost fell over.
He leaned down and picked Chan up, cradling him
in his arms. He was too happy to see him to scold
him, even though he knew that he would have to carry
the little bear most of the way. Chan reached up his
pink tongue and licked Chico’s face joyfully. Now that
he had a companion, the boy was no longer afraid of
the lonely Paramos.
The sun climbed high over the mountains and
stood straight overhead while Chico and the bear
hurried toward the mountain, but no matter how fast
Chico walked, he could not seem to come nearer to it.
Then, after a long time, they came to the base. Here
Chico put Chan down, and they started the climb
together. When they reached the top, they were both
panting and hot. Chico sat down and breathed heavily.
He had, of course, expected to see only a barren
hilltop. Imagine his astonishment when, after he had
rested a bit, he turned and discovered that the hilltop
was covered by the ruins of a giant stone building! It
was so big that once a thousand people might have
lived in it. Perhaps more!
Imagine his astonishment when, after he had rested a bit,
he turned and discovered that the hilltop was covered by
the ruins of a giant stone building!
The part of the ruins that still stood was shaped

like a giant circle. It rose twenty feet above the hill
and was formed of great gray stones cut into squares.
As it circled toward the abutting mountain, its height
became less until, at the back, it was level with the
sloping ground. The inside of this foundation was
filled with earth, overgrown with grass and moss. On
top stood a small section of wall made of mud. Once,
perhaps, this wall had enclosed the whole building
and a thatch of grass had covered the wall. But the
rain and wind had beaten these down until only the
small corner remained.
Chico’s memory worked rapidly. He knew this was
not the place where Don Ernesto had found him, of
course. It was too large, and then, too, it was high on
the hill. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he
had a dim recollection of one of Old Man’s stories.
Then, suddenly, it came to him.
Ever since Chico could remember, Grandfather
had told him stories by the firelight. And of all the
stories, Chico had loved best the tales of the people
who had once lived, as he did, on the Paramos: the
Quitus and the Incas. As soon as Grandfather would
finish one tale about them, Chico would beg for
another. When the old man had run out of stories,
Don Ernesto had brought a book from Cuenca,
and Grandfather had read it over and over again to
him. In between stories, Chico would pore over the

brightly colored pictures.
Of all the things he liked to hear, the best was when
Grandfather told about the ancient Inca fortress that
was supposed to be somewhere in their own part of
the Andes. And now he had found it! He had found
the ruins of Pucará!
Forgetting everything that he had come for, Chico
started out to explore. He ran around the big stone
blocks, as tall as he, which had fallen from the ruins
and lay tossed about as though some mountain giant
had playfully thrown them there. When he reached
the back of the ruin, he was able to climb up on top.
He was disappointed that so little remained now. In
his mind he pictured the time when thousands of Inca
soldiers had swarmed busily over the fortress. Perhaps
the great Inca himself had rested there on one of his
journeys!
As he ran about examining the ruins, Chico
remembered the story of why such a fortress as Pucará
was here in these mountains when, by rights, it had
belonged to the Kingdom of the Quitus. Grandfather
had told him the story many times.
“Once upon a time,” the old man would begin,
“many, many years ago, our country was not called
Ecuador, as it is today. It was known as the Kingdom
of the Quitus. That is where our capital of Quito got
its name, and the Quitu Indians lived in all this part of
the Andes.
“These Indians lived under a strong ruler, and
everything they did was guided by his laws. Each one
hundred families was formed into a village called an
ayull, and each ayull was under one chieftain who was
responsible to the king alone.
“The king himself was owner of all the land in the
Kingdom of the Quitus. To each male Indian he gave
a certain number of acres to care for. When the man
married, this was doubled. If he had a girl child, he
was given half as much again; if a boy, he received a
piece of earth equal to that which he first had.
“On this land the family lived and died. They
seldom left their village unless there was a war, and
then only with the chieftain’s consent. That,” the old
man would say in explanation, “is why our people love
the land so dearly.
“The Quitus lived simply, such as we do today.
They planted beans and corn and potatoes and fruit,
depending on where they lived. From the cotton that
was grown on the lowlands, the women wove cotton
trousers and blouses on their own looms. With the
wool they collected from the llamas, they made heavy
skirts and ponchos.
“They were happy people, for they had all that they
needed. Everyone had plenty to eat. The land of the
sick and the old and the soldiers who were away was
taken care of by their neighbors. Each good year a part
of the crops was stored so that when a bad year came,
and the harvest failed, there would still be plenty. Yes,
they were happy people.” The old man would nod and
puff his pipe before adding, “Then came the war.”
Chico always became excited when he said this.
Now, standing on the ruins where all this had
happened, his eyes sparkled.
“Far to the south,” the old man would continue,
“in the country known as Peru, there lived another
nation of Indians. These we call the Incas, although
really, only the rulers were Incas—that was what they
called the king’s family. These Indians lived as our own
people did, but there were more of them.
“The Incas were very war-like. They decided to take
the Quitus into their nation and sent an army into our
land. There were many battles, some right here on our
own high Paramos.
“I have heard how the great army came, thousands
and thousands of soldiers. And they were so fierce
that it was enough to frighten our poor mountain
people to death just to see them. These soldiers were
dressed in bright-colored clothes and wore vests made
of shells. Their faces were painted in horrible designs
with colored clay. Each carried a long lance tipped
with sharp copper. Some had slingshots, and others
great bows and arrows. Behind these marched more

Indians armed with clubs. And there were many fierce
battles.”
“Who won?” Chico would ask.
“Why, the Incas did. They conquered our whole
country.” The old man would shake his head sadly,
although in truth he knew not whether he was part
Inca or part Quitu Indian. All he knew was that the
blood of later conquerors, the Spaniards, ran in his
veins.
“And when they had conquered a part of our
country, they would build a huge fortress to protect
it. There the soldiers would live until they went out to
battle again.”
Chico sighed. It was a wonderful story. He was
always sorry when it came to an end. And now, to
think that he had found one of the fortresses! One of
the biggest.
When he had examined everything in the main
part of the ruins, Chico followed a narrow path,
worn down by many feet into the solid stone. This
led up the hill in back of the ruins. Panting a little,
he reached a flat spot. His eyes popped when he saw
that a square, three feet deep, had been cut into the
solid rock. Around the edge of it were little niches
like benches. Chico sat down on one and leaned back,
pretending that he was an Inca. Perhaps this was
where the leader had rested and looked out over the
Paramos. When it rained, the hollow would be full of
water. Well, perhaps he had taken a bath there. Chico
laughed and then shivered. It would be a cold bath up
here where the mountain winds whistled.
From this high place, Chico could see for miles,
but he was too high to see clearly the piles of stone
that dotted the Paramos. The thought reminded him
of his search. Already he had wasted too much time
dreaming of the ancient Incas.
Chico started down the trail at a run. At the
bottom he whistled for Chan, who had disap-
peared. In a second the bear came running, carrying
something in his mouth. So, Chan had been digging
again. Chico took the round piece of metal from the
bear. It was green with age. Chico put it on his arm
like a bracelet. This would prove to Grandfather that
he had really found the ruins, he thought.
“Come on, Chan. We’ll sit out here on the edge of
the hill. While we search for the rocks, we can eat our
lunch.”
Chan pricked up his ears as he saw the boy fumble
with the bundle of food. He trotted after him and lay
down.
Chico chewed on a piece of cold potato. Starting at
one side of the valley, he searched each pile of stones
carefully, eyes squinting. All the rocks looked the
same. The gray-green Paramos stretched before him,

but each part looked like the rest.
Chan whined and, absentmindedly, Chico handed
him the potato he had been chewing on. He picked up
another for himself.
Suddenly, Chico’s eyes stopped their restless
wandering and focused on one spot. He nodded his
head. Yes, it was a road. No doubt about it. From his
high place, he could see a wide road, like a faint scar
on the earth, leading across the Paramos and toward
the mountains. But it could not be the regular trail.
This was too wide, and, besides, the trail was far to the
left and at the mouth of the valley.
Then Chico remembered that Grandfather had said
that the Incas built stone roads from Cuzco in Peru
to Quito. Over these roads, runners had passed, and
sometimes the Inca had come with his caravan to visit
his new country.
Chico’s eyes seemed to glaze and take on a faraway
look. Steadily, he stared at the road of long ago. As he
stared, the Paramos seemed to change. On each side
of the road that ran down the mountain and toward
the ruins were fields of potatoes, their green leaves and
purple blossoms waving in the wind. Indians, men and
women and children, were working in their fields.
In his imagination, Chico heard a shrill blast of a
trumpet. In his imagination, he saw the Indians throw
“Make way! Make way!” the captain cries. “Make way for
the great Inca.”
up their heads and cock them on one side and then

hurry to the side of the road and peer down it, shading
their eyes from the sun with brown, dirt-stained
hands.
What is it? Who blows the trumpet?
In the distance four men appear. On swift-sandaled
feet, they run over the stone-paved road. As they run,
they hold giant seashells to their lips. From them
comes a piercing blast that echoes through the silent
mountains.
These are only the forerunners. Next comes a
captain of the guard, his white cotton trousers
slapping around his legs, his brilliantly dyed poncho
streaming back from his brown arms. On his feet are
white woven sandals, tied in place with green and red
leather thongs. He carries a long lance, tipped with
gleaming volcanic glass, which catches the rays of the
sun and sends them shooting back over the Paramos.
Behind the captain are his soldiers. Their red and
green and blue ponchos make a rainbow of color
against the drab landscape.
“Make way! Make way!” the captain cries. “Make
way for the great Inca.”
Then, like tall grass before the wind, the people who
line the road bend to their knees and bow their heads.
“It is our king, the Inca, who comes all the way
from Cuzco,” they murmur softly.
And now comes the gorgeous litter of the Inca. It

is covered with rich embroidery, with golden tassels
hanging down. Beautiful gems are sewn into the cloth.
The Indians gasp in amazement. The bowed
heads bow even lower, and they jerk off their little
caps of red wool. Not one dares to look at the Inca.
His beauty is too great; his person too brilliant for
ordinary eyes. It would be like staring into the sun—
and one would be blinded.
Then the litter, carried by eight strong men, sweeps
by. Other soldiers follow, and the procession disap-
pears down the road. Once more the road is empty.
Chico drew a deep breath. He shook his head and
looked around him. How real it had been, just as if the
Inca had really passed by! But he had only imagined it,
and once more he saw the empty Paramos.
A sudden gust of wind roused the boy from his
dreaming. Pulling his poncho close, he stood up
and looked around. He lifted his eyes to the high
mountains. What he saw made him shiver.
White veils of Paramos fog were creeping through
the sharp passes. With each blast of wind, the fog
burst through and spread out over the valley. The sun
shone still above the mountains, but quickly now it
began to sink in the west. It was far later than Chico
had thought. And the mist was gathering early.
Chico grabbed up the little bear and started down
the hill. He must hurry if he was to find the trail.

It was too late now to hunt for the pile of stones.
Bitterly, he remembered how he had wasted his time
dreaming of the Incas instead of searching. And he
had meant to look so hard. Perhaps he would never
find it now.
But a new fear came over the boy and wiped out his
unhappiness. As he ran over the rocky earth, he turned
his head to look back. Slowly, silently, the white mist
was creeping after him. Would he be able to reach the
trail in time?
Four
SEARCH
The mist covered the Paramos like a heavy white

veil. Swirling through the mountain passes, it filled
the valley and crept down around each rock and each
blade of grass. Then there was nothing to be seen
except the fog.
Inside this white gloom, Chico struggled on. His
bare feet were cold now, and, as he stumbled, the sharp
rocks cut into them. He could not see more than a few
steps ahead. Chan clung to him, moaning and whim-
pering with cold and fright.
Chico could only guess at his direction. As long as
the land sloped downward, he knew he was walking
toward the mouth of the valley. But the ground
seemed more uneven; there seemed to be more
boulders to walk around than when he came up.
Suddenly, from up the valley came a loud shriek,
SEARCH 47
and the wind burst through the mountain passes.

Where the Paramos had been coldly silent, now it
was turned into a churning, screaming mass of wind-
driven fog.
The wind hit Chico with a blast that made him
struggle to keep on his feet. Its force drove him
sideways, and he staggered for several steps. Chan
snuffled and moved closer for warmth.
It was impossible now for him to keep on in the
same direction. To escape the force of the wind, he
turned and let it push him onward from the back. The
ground began to rise, and he knew he must be going
to the left. Perhaps he could still reach the trail farther
down than he had left it. Once on the trail, his feet
could feel their way, even through the fog, he thought.
He hurried on.
Then came the night. Like the sudden dousing
of a candle, the day ended. There was no half-light
between night and day. One moment there was light;
the next, darkness. The wind moaned.
Chico was growing tired. It was hard now to lift his
legs. With each step he moved more slowly. His arms
grew numb. Little Chan felt three times as heavy as
when he had started. The boy knew he could not go
on much longer. How many hours now had he been
walking? It seemed a long time.
By now, he knew, he should have come to the trail.
Instead, the earth went on rising under his feet. He

must have turned around in the storm. He was lost.
His fears were real: he would never see the little stone
house again, or Grandfather; he would lie down to
rest, and in the morning the condors would find him.
No! No! He must get home. He hurried on.
Suddenly, his tired feet tripped over a small rock,
and he fell. Cold water seeped through his clothes and
wet his face. He was too tired to move. Sobbing quietly,
he lay there. The mist settled over him. Except for the
shriek of the wind, all was quiet on the Paramos.
Then Chico felt a sharp sting on his bare leg where
his trouser had pulled up. Another struck his arm and
the back of his head. Like a rain of pebbles, the sharp
stings struck all over his body with growing force.
Hail!
A hailstorm had come. Chico pulled himself
painfully to his knees. The icy pellets struck his face,
and he threw up his arms to protect it. Then he was on
his feet, driven on by the maddening sting of hail.
Chico felt a soft, warm tongue touch his cold feet.
It was Chan, who had been thrown out of his arms
when he fell. The little bear whined and begged to be
picked up again.
Tears rolled down Chico’s face. He was too tired
to carry little Chan. He must leave him behind in
the hailstorm. Chico knew what that meant. Even
SEARCH 49
mules left on the Paramos in a hailstorm were crazed

by the sleet and whirled in circles until they dropped,
exhausted, and died.
“I can’t carry you, Chan,” he sobbed.
Limping on his stubbed toe, he began the painful
walk once more. At first he could hear the little bear’s
cries; then they were lost in the clatter of falling hail.
He would never see Chan again, even if he, himself,
were to live.
Chico wandered for a long time. His hands and
face were cut by the pieces of hail that blew against
him. His ears ached from the cold wind. Even though
he knew it was hopeless to keep trying, something
made him do it. He was almost ready to give up when
his feet struck something strange on the Paramos. At
first he thought it was the trail. Then he felt smooth
stones and knew he had reached the old Inca road.
The walking was easier, but Chico knew that it would
not lead him to the trail. It would only take him
higher into the mountains. However, as he did not
know where else to go, he kept on going.
Then Chico almost fell over a large rock. As he
put out his hand, he felt that rocks surrounded him.
While he thought about the rocks, he realized that
something had happened. Had the storm stopped?
He put one hand to his cheek. It was true; the hail no
longer struck him.
The boy could hear the wind raging over the

Paramos. From someplace nearby, he heard a sharp
clack-clack as hailstones splattered on the earth. The
storm had not stopped, but, accidentally, he had found
some sort of refuge. What it was, he could not tell in
the misty dark. He slid down against a stone wall and
curled up, shaking and shivering from weariness and
the cold that had crept into his blood. Perhaps he could
stay here until morning. Perhaps he would not die after
all. Another chill shook him from head to foot.
A soft scratching and patter brought Chico upright
again. Through the dark came a little shape, whining
and crying. Then a warm nose searched for his face.
Too tired to do more than laugh softly, Chico reached
out and took the little bear in his arms.
Slowly, slowly, the little bear and the boy warmed
each other. Chico stopped shivering gradually. Curled
into a tight ball around his pet, he drifted off to sleep.
Outside the wind and hail whirled, but Chico and
Chan were safe in the shelter.
Five
A DISCOVERY
Where was he?

Chico sat up suddenly and then sank back to the
ground and groaned. His whole body was stiff and
sore. He wiggled a toe cautiously, and then one foot.
He could move them.
But where was he? Where were the smoke-
blackened walls of the stone house? And where was
Grandfather?
Chico lay still, gathering his sleepy wits. Gradually,
as if it were a dream, he remembered the night before.
He shuddered. How cold and frightened he had been!
But now a beam of sunlight fell across his legs. It was
morning, and he was still alive!
Chico lifted himself carefully on one elbow and
peered from swollen eyes through a crack in the
stones. The mist lay everywhere in feathery patches,
but already, the morning sun was clearing it from the

Paramos and warming the cold air.
From where he lay, Chico could see far over the
moor. What a long way he had walked in the storm!
He was, without doubt, high on the hillside which he
had seen from the ruins. No wonder his feet were sore.
He bent down to examine the cuts and bruises.
Chico turned back to the shelter. It had been a
safe refuge. He reached out one hand and patted the
nearest stone gratefully.
As he touched the cool rock, a strange feeling came
over the boy. It was as though he had done this before.
Suddenly, this place was not strange at all, but very
familiar. This had all happened before.
Trembling with excitement, Chico pulled himself
to his feet. He hobbled a few steps. His head began to
nod, slowly at first, then faster and faster.
Yes, there was a wall—it had protected him from
the wind. And the stones were square-cut—even those
that had tumbled down—just as Don Ernesto had
said. And he remembered that last night his feet had
followed that Inca road and brought him here. This
must be a ruined Inca tambo, a resting place. It must
be—it was—the place where Don Ernesto had found
him when he was a baby!
Chico moved suddenly, and his whole body twinged
with pain. But he almost forgot it in his excitement.
A DISCOVERY 53
By accident and in the dark night, he had found what

he was searching for. His journey had not been in vain.
Chico began to look among all the rocks and in the
corners of the tumbled hut. It did not take long, for
there had only been two rooms to this tambo. At first,
he had been so sure he would find something that he
had moved hastily and eagerly. Then, even though his
sore muscles loosened with the exercise, he slowed
down. At last, when he came to the end of the search,
he sat down once more. His brown eyes were sad.
Chico had been so sure there would be some trace
of his people here, something that would tell him
who he was and where he came from. But there was
nothing. The stones stared back at him silently. It was
not for them to speak of what had gone before. If they
had, how many more important things they would
have had to tell than the finding of one small boy a
mere eight years ago. The Incas had rested here—these
stones could talk in terms of hundreds of years.
Chico stood up and sadly pulled his poncho around
him. There was nothing for him to do but find the
trail and return home.
A scuffle and a sharp bark, coming from behind
some stones, made Chico turn. He had forgotten that
Chan was with him. Now where had he been? Out
searching for grubs, no doubt, for he had not been in
that corner when Chico had searched the ruin.
“Venga, Chan. Come on. We have a long way to go,”

he called.
When Chan did not come running, Chico walked
to the corner and squinted toward him. Chan was
digging again, of course. Chico spoke sharply. He was
hungry and tired and unhappy. He had no time to fool
with Chan and his digging.
Chan came then, carrying something in his mouth.
He wanted to play, as usual, and dashed in and out
among the rocks as fast as his short furry legs could
carry him. Chico could see that he carried something
square and black, but as soon as he got close to him,
off Chan would dash. Chico hobbled after him as best
he could on his sore feet.
Once, Chico almost caught him. The bear was
so excited that he dropped the thing he carried and
dashed off behind a rock. That was all Chico wanted.
Paying no attention to Chan, he picked the object up
and brushed off the dry dirt.
Chico’s lips trembled as he looked at the thing
Chan had dug up out of the earth. It was no relic of
the Incas. It was a black book, six inches long, bound
in smooth leather. On the torn and soiled cover, there
was the faintest outline of a gold cross. Chico had
seen one other book like this; it was in Grandfather’s
wooden chest. This was a Prayer Book. There was no
doubt of that. But how could a Prayer Book be in
Chan came then, carrying something in his mouth.
this lonely place, unless—?

Chan had stopped his play and was watching his
master with bright eyes. Why did he not carry on the
game? Chan barked gruffly to show his annoyance.
But Chico did not even hear him. He opened the
black cover and looked at the pages that were stained
and torn. Words were written there. Chico moved to
the entrance of the ruin to get more light. Yes, there
was writing, faint as a spider’s web, across the top of
the first page.
The boy’s lips moved as he spelled out the letters.
The first three were all that remained of a word that
had been torn in half.
“—i-n-a,” he spelled.
Below that was another word, and this one was
complete.
“C-u,” painfully, the boy puzzled out each dim,
faded letter—“C-u-e-n-c-a.”
“Cuenca!” he exclaimed.
Cuenca. That was the town where Don Ernesto
lived with his sister. That was the capital of the
Province of Azuay. That was the city Chico had heard
Grandfather and Don Ernesto talk of so very often.
That was where Grandfather sold his Panama hats.
And that was what was written in this precious book.
Precious, yes, for Chico never doubted that the Prayer
Book had belonged to his mother. Had he not been
A DISCOVERY 57
led to the very spot through all the storm? Had not
God helped him to find it? And who else would have
left her Prayer Book in this spot except the mother
who expected to return for her son?
Tears trembled in his eyes as he thought of his
mother, who had once held this book. He had seen her
only when he was a baby—and he would never see her
again. But he would find out who she was, and from
where she had come. He would learn his name and
seek out his bit of earth. That he could do.
Chan pricked up his ears when he heard Chico call
him. His master sounded excited and almost happy
again. He hurried on his short legs to catch up with
Chico, who was walking down the mountain slope.
At the bottom Chico picked up the little bear and
carried him. He must get home quickly. Now that he
knew what he was going to do, he did not want to
waste any time. He must go to Cuenca at once, but
first he would go home. So, at an awkward trot, Chico
padded over the rocky Paramos, found the narrow
trail, and set out for home.
Six
RETURN
The same Andean sun that had wakened Chico that

morning shone brightly over Grandfather’s thatch-
roofed hut. It shone on the color in the red feathers of
old Inca, the rooster, as it strutted proudly back and
forth in front of the house, stopping to crow and flap its
wings. But now Old Man had no eyes for his pet. For
the hundredth time that day, he came to the doorway
and searched the Paramos with his weak old eyes. For
the hundredth time, he sighed deeply and turned away.
The Paramos was empty. All night long, the old
man had sat by the fire in his hut, listening to the
shriek of wind and the pound of hail against the
stone walls. He had crouched near the fire, keeping it
blazing with pieces of wood and bunches of dry ichu
grass. Waiting. Waiting for the little boy who was
alone out on the moors.
RETURN 59
Today, for the first time, Grandfather’s many years

rested heavily on his shoulders. His wrinkled hands
trembled, and his head bowed until the gray and white
beard hung down on his chest.
“Ai-ya,” he sighed over and over again. “Why did
I ever permit the boy to go alone? If only I had kept
him here! Now he is gone, lost as his mother and
father were in the Paramos storm.”
The old man set about his tasks wearily. With a stiff
broom of twigs, he swept the hard earthen floor of the
room. He straightened the blankets on his bed and
rinsed out the gourd dishes. All the time, his thoughts
ran around inside his head like a guinea pig in a pen.
“So now he is gone,” he thought, “and I am alone
once more. My last comfort has been taken from me. I
thought the Good Lord had pardoned me when Don
Ernesto brought the little fellow here. And when no
one claimed him, I felt that he was meant to be mine.
But now I know I am still being punished for my
wickedness.”
A tear rolled from his eye, found its way among the
wrinkles of his old face, and fell on his hand.
“Yes, my wickedness,” he repeated. “What else
would it be when a man drives his only daughter
from her home? As my sorrow is now, so it was when
Josefina left me, twelve years ago. Ai—I regretted it.
But it was too late. Josefina never came home again,
though I’ve waited and waited. And now the boy is

gone. There is nothing left.”
Outdoors the morning breeze rustled the dry
thatch on the roof. A hummingbird twittered
nervously. From a distance came the shrill cry of the
giant condor as it circled the valley.
With bent shoulders, still murmuring to himself,
Grandfather moved once more to the doorway and
leaned against the wall. He looked down the trail in
the direction that Don Ernesto and the boy had taken
only the day before. The sunlight, after the dark room,
was so bright that he shaded his eyes with one hand.
He stared for a long time.
Nothing.
Grandfather dropped his hand and turned away.
Then he jerked around again. Was that something
moving far down the trail? He rubbed his eyes with
both fists and looked again. No, there was nothing.
He had stared so long that now there were black spots
dancing before him. He must give up looking.
But something kept drawing the old man back to
the doorway. Each time the black dot seemed larger.
Then there was no doubt. The speck leaned down,
grew tall again, and began to run. Behind it was
another little spot that dashed back and forth from
one side of the trail to the other. It was Chico with
Chan following.
RETURN 61
When Chico saw Old Man standing in the

doorway, he was so happy he thought his heart would
burst. Tired as he was, he ran up the last part of the
trail as fast as his legs could carry him. Not even his
sore feet bothered him.
He reached the man and was held close in the
trembling arms. He felt his eyes burn with hot tears—
but they were happy ones—and a lump came into his
throat. He had not known until now how much he
loved the old man!
They sat down by the fire and drank coffee. Chico
ate bits of cold boiled potatoes so fast that he almost
choked. Old Man could do no more than watch the
boy and hand him more food the instant he finished a
piece.
At last Chico had had enough. He could wait no
longer to tell the old man all that had happened.
Leaning forward eagerly, he began his story from the
time he had left Don Ernesto. He told how he had
found the ruins of Pucará, and Grandfather opened
his eyes wide at this. He told how, because he had
daydreamed, he had been caught by the Paramos mist,
which poured in so much earlier on that far-distant
moor. He looked sidewise at the old man as he
confessed about the daydreaming, for he had often
been scolded for this. Now Grandfather showed no
sign of scolding him.
Then he told of the walk through the storm and of

how he had found the shelter. When he spoke of how
he and Chan had kept each other warm, the old man
reached out a hand and petted the little bear. He had
almost reached the part about Chan’s discovery, which
he was saving for the last, when Grandfather inter-
rupted him.
“We must thank the Good Lord, Chico, for your
safe return,” he said gently. “Surely it was a miracle
that you lived through such a night. And you must not
be sad because your journey was in vain. Perhaps it
was meant that you should keep an old man company
until the end of his life.”
So he tried to comfort the boy for the unhappi-
ness that he felt must now come over him when the
excitement had ended. But all the time Chico was
tugging at his back pocket, trying to pull out the
Prayer Book. He was so excited that he stammered
when he tried to talk.
“But, Viejito, you do not understand,” he said. “The
shelter was the place where Don Ernesto found me.
And l-l-look. Look what Chan dug up. Is this not
proof that I found the place? Do you not think that
this was left by my mother?”
He thrust the dirt-stained book into the old man’s
hands. Slowly, Grandfather turned it over and over.
“Inside, Old Man, inside. See the writing. I could
RETURN 63
read the letters myself.” Chico looked at him proudly.

Grandfather had often scolded him because he did
not study his letters harder, but at least he had learned
enough for this. “See, it says ‘Cuenca.’ That must be
where my mother came from.”
Grandfather opened the book and turned it
sidewise to catch the light. He, too, read the letters:
i-n-a.
Cuenca.
“What do the first letters mean?” Chico asked,
getting up on his knees to peer at the torn page.
The old man pondered.
“I would say that they were part of someone’s name,
the last part,” he muttered. “A woman’s name, surely,
for it ends in A. But you must not be too sure, Chico.
Perhaps it is not your mother’s.”
“But, sí, Old Man,” Chico argued heatedly. “How
else would it come to be in the ruins where I was
found? Are there so many people, then, who have been
lost in that same place? No. It must be my mother’s,”
he cried.
He took back the book and stroked its pages
tenderly.
“Well, perhaps it is,” Grandfather answered.
“Stranger things have happened.”
But Chico was thinking now of something else.
“Old Man, what might the name be that ends
thus?” he asked. Chico had never known a girl, so how

could he know what kinds of names they had?
“Oh, there are many. There is Teresina, Marina,
Elvina, Josefina—,” Grandfather whispered the last
name. There were many thoughts in the old man’s
head this morning, and, in spite of the boy’s return,
they were not all happy ones.
Chico jumped to his feet. Running to his bed, he
dived under it and began to pull out his few clothes.
He chattered excitedly.
“I will have to hurry. There is no time to waste now.
Just think that yesterday I did not even know where to
look.”
Grandfather watched him, and then asked, “Hurry?
Hurry for what? What are you doing, Chico?”
“I am going to Cuenca, where else? Once there, I
know I shall find out who my people were and where
they lived.”
“Slowly, slowly, Chico. You cannot go to Cuenca,”
the old man said firmly.
Not go! Chico was stunned. Why did Old Man
think he had hurried so to get home? Of course, he
had wanted to see him, but it was to get ready to go to
Cuenca, too. He had already wasted too much time.
Grandfather looked toward him and smiled gently.
“Chico, come here and sit down,” he said. “I cannot
talk to you when you rush around like Chan.”
RETURN 65
The boy walked over to the fire. He had been

brought up to obey the old man and knew that what
he said, he must do.
“Now, Chico, listen to me carefully. I know how
much this means to you. But you must remember, too,
that you are still just a boy. What do you know of the
city? Do you think I would let you take that journey
to Cuenca alone? Why, it is four days to there, and
sometimes the trail is not clear. Even Don Ernesto
loses his way sometimes, as he told you.”
Don Ernesto! Chico looked up hopefully.
“Could I not go with Don Ernesto?” he begged.
“He will return soon.”
“But what would you do in Cuenca? Do not think
you could find what you seek at once. It might take
months. How would you eat? A city is not like here.
Each night’s sleep and each bite of food costs money.
And that is something we do not have, as you well
know. Although we have a roof over our head, and
plenty of food and work, we do not have money. No,”
the old man went on, raising his hand to silence the
boy’s question, “you could not expect Don Ernesto
to take care of you. He would do it if he could, but I
know he has the mouths of his sister and her children
to feed.”
Chico’s face lost its happy excitement. It had all
seemed so simple. But now he knew how hopeless
it was. He turned and looked out over the Paramos

dully.
“Chico.”
The boy turned toward him hopelessly.
“Chico, this that you wish to do is not to be done
in a moment. If this wish of yours is truly in your
heart, you will never lose it,” the old man said. “For
that reason, you must work and plan toward it. Then
someday you will go to Cuenca, as you wish.”
Chico waited, but his eyes had brightened a bit.
“But how, Old Man? How will it ever be different
than it is now?”
“I do not know yet, my boy. I will think of
something. And I promise you it will not be so long
as you think,” the old man said and smiled happily as
he saw the old, joyous Chico, excited and full of plans,
return to him.
Seven
THE FINE STRAW HAT
“Now, Old Man? Now? Have you thought of

anything yet?” Chico lowered the gourd full of black
coffee from his mouth and looked at the old man
hopefully.
Grandfather waved his smoking pipe. “Not yet, not
yet. Give me time,” he grumbled.
Ever since last night, Chico had been asking the
same questions. How could a man think when he was
pestered so? Why, even in the middle of the night,
the boy had wakened to ask again. And now, the first
thing in the morning, before a man’s brains were warm
enough to move at all, he was at it again.
The old man sucked on his pipe and stared at the
fire. The house was silent. Outdoors, the blue sky was
covered with thick masses of clouds, purple-black and
heavy with rain. Soon there would be a storm.
As Grandfather thought, he would nod his head.

Chico would watch him. When he would shake it
as if to say, “No, that will not do,” Chico would sigh
unhappily.
At last, the old man nodded two or three times. He
straightened up on the stool and slapped his thin leg
with one hand.
“That is it!” he exclaimed.
“What is it, Viejito? Have you an idea?” Chico stood
up excitedly.
“Sí, sí, but it is not easy. It will take time,” warned
the old man.
“What is it?”
Grandfather paused and looked importantly at the
boy.
“We will weave a hat—or rather, you will,” he
answered.
“Oh!” All the air blew out of Chico’s lungs. He had
believed that Grandfather had thought of something.
But hat weaving! They had been doing that for years,
and still, they had no money.
“Do not make such a face, my boy. This is different.
How much do we get for a hat?”
Chico sat down in discouragement. “Two sucres,
sometimes three, if I am careful,” he answered
hopelessly.
“Well, then, this time we will weave a hat that is
THE FINE STRAW HAT 69
worth—” the old man paused and waited for the boy
to look at him, “That is worth fifty sucres.”
“Fifty sucres!” Chico had never seen so much money
in his whole life. “Fifty sucres for just one Panama hat,
Grandfather? Who would be crazy enough to pay that
much?”
“Ah-ha, that is how much you know! Have I not
always told you that you have much to learn yet?” he
chuckled. “No, Chico, they would not be crazy. You
see, there are other hats than the kind you have woven.
Those are quickly made of coarse straw. But there is
another kind which only a few people know how to
weave. They are so fine and beautiful that any buyer is
willing to pay that much money and more.
“This kind,” the old man went on proudly, “is made
by only a few families. The skill is handed down from
father to son and mother to daughter, and my own
family was one of these. Once, they wove the finest in
the Provincia de Azuay.”
Chico looked carefully at the old man. What he
said sounded true, but then, why had he not woven
good hats before? The boy’s eyes stared at the old
man’s hands. The skin on them was black and tough
from years of digging in the cold Paramos earth. The
knuckles were swollen, and some of the fingers were
twisted out of shape. It was hard for the old man to
weave the cheap hats. How could he make a finely
woven one?
Grandfather followed the boy’s glance. He stretched
one hand in front of him and bent the stiff fingers
back and forth awkwardly.
“Yes,” he said sadly, “it is true. My fingers are too
old now. But I have the secret of weaving them here,”
he tapped his forehead with one finger. “And your
fingers are young. If you work hard and do just as I say,
you may be able to make a good hat. When it is done,
you can go to Cuenca and sell it.”
The old man paused and looked at Chico very
thoughtfully. Then with a sigh, he continued, “But
perhaps you will not be able to make a fine one. It
has always been true that one must be born into a
hat-weaving family to have the knack.”
Chico was convinced. Once more he jumped up
from his stool. If Grandfather would teach him, he
knew he could weave the hat. Of course, he had not
done well on the cheap ones, but that was because it
was so easy. His fingers could move by themselves, and
then his thoughts would wander, and he would make a
mistake. But on a fine one, he was sure he would work
carefully. And then he would go to Cuenca.
“When can we begin?” he cried. “We must hurry so
that it will be made when Don Ernesto returns.”
“Gently, Chico, gently. That is what I have been
telling you. It will take a long time—many weeks,
perhaps months. You must not plan to go with Don

Ernesto this next trip. This hat cannot be hurried.”
Just then thunder crashed outside the house. The
first large drops of rain spattered on the thatch roof.
A flash of lightning lit up the silent Paramos, and the
storm began. A solid sheet of water poured down over
the house. Chico and the old man knew they would be
kept indoors all day.
“This is a good time to start,” said the old man. “Get
the new straw that Don Ernesto brought, Chico.”
Chico ran to the corner and climbed up on the bed.
From the shelf above it, he pulled down the paper-
wrapped package of long straw.
“We shall have to cut this straw. It is too coarse for
our hat,” Old Man said and took out a small sharp
knife and unrolled the package. Taking out one piece,
he examined it critically. Chico watched. The old man
placed his knife at the very end of the straw and made
a small cut. Putting down his knife, he took hold of
the two cut ends and pulled gently. The straw separated
evenly. Grandfather held up the straw that had now
become two fine strands instead of one coarse piece.
“See?”
“Let me do it, Old Man,” Chico said eagerly. He
was anxious to get to work.
Grandfather moved the straw away from Chico’s
hands.
“Not so fast. Let me see your hands first,” he

ordered.
Chico held them out with palms turned up and
fingers widespread.
“Just as I thought. Go and wash them. This straw
must be kept clean, or the hat will be of no value.”
Chico stood up obediently, pushing the little bear,
Chan, who had come to sleep on his lap, gently to
the floor. Walking to the door, he dipped out a gourd
full of water from the clay olla and began to rinse his
hands.
“Use some sand to scrub them,” Grandfather called.
So Chico dipped into the coarse sand that they
used instead of soap and rubbed his hands back and
forth. Then he rinsed them with clear water.
When he went back to the fire, Grandfather was
poking Chan with one bare foot to keep him away
from the straw. Now that the bear was awake, he
was ready to play, and the pile of straw looked as if it
would be fun.
Chico sneaked up behind his pet.
“I will get him,” he said and grabbed the little
fellow by the neck.
“You are not going to spoil this hat,” he said. Once
when he was making a hat, Chan had got hold of it
and spent all one afternoon chewing it up into tiny
pieces.
Chico tied the bear to the bed leg with a piece of

bark, and then went back to the fire.
“Maybe we shall have some peace now,” grumbled
Grandfather, but he smiled fondly at the little animal.
When the boy was seated cross-legged at the old
man’s feet, Grandfather handed him another knife.
“Do just as I do,” he said and picked up another
piece to split. “We shall cut it all before we begin
weaving. In that way, we shall make no mistake and
get a big piece in the hat.”
Chico began to split the straw carefully. His tongue
stuck out between his teeth, and his eyes squinted
anxiously. This time he must do it correctly. When he
had done a few pieces, he stopped, the knife held in
midair, and eyed the uncut pile of straw.
“It will take a long time to split all that,” he said
uneasily.
“Not so long, if you work hard,” answered Grand-
father. “It is impossible to make a fine hat if the straw
is coarse, no matter how well you weave. Of course,
if you do not want to—.” He started to lay down his
knife.
“Oh, I was only joking, Grandfather,” Chico said
hastily and grabbed up two straws at one time.
They worked in silence. As the stack of fine strands
grew larger, the other shrank. With the two of them
working, it went quickly. Long before he came to the
last piece of straw, however, Chico felt as if his back

would break. He leaned back and stretched.
Grandfather bent down from his stool and began to
count the new straws.
“Ten—twenty—thirty,” he added aloud. “I hope
there will be enough. This kind of hat uses up a great
deal.”
But nothing could discourage Chico. He was going
to weave a fine hat and then take it to Cuenca and sell
it for fifty sucres. With all that money, he could live for
a long time while he searched for some trace of his
people.
Grandfather stood up and stretched his arms.
“Are we going to start the hat now, Grandfather?”
Chico asked eagerly.
“Let us have something to eat first. We must eat
and sleep, even if you are going to weave a hat,” replied
the old man jokingly.
Chico helped the old man build up the fire and
make fresh coffee. From a small basket, he took out
some cold boiled potatoes and a piece of the meat that
Don Ernesto had left. It did not take long for them to
finish eating.
While Chico washed his hands again, Grand-
father peered out into the storm. As the rain came
down and ran off the hillside, the Paramos became
like a rushing river. Flashes of lightning showed
the mountain peaks, leaving the moors in a purple

twilight.
“I hope Don Ernesto reached the mines safely,” said
the old man. “How would you like to be out on the
Paramos today, Chico?”
Chico shuddered.
With the fire built up, the man and the boy were
warm and snug in their little house. The roof had been
newly thatched a few months before, so not one drop
of water leaked through. No matter how the storm
raged outside, they were safe.
Grandfather picked up some straw and began the
hat. Chico hung over him so that sometimes Grand-
father could not see his own hands. The weaving was
just the same as in the other hats. Up and over—in
and out—Grandfather pulled the delicate strands. But
this time he had to be very careful. If the straw was
pulled too hard, it would break.
The top of the crown of the hat was no larger than a
five-cent piece when Grandfather had to stop. His old
hands trembled. This was work for young fingers. His
were too old and stiff. He handed the hat to the boy.
“You do it,” he said. “Weave just as you always do,
but be very careful. And keep the straw pulled firmly
so that the weave will be tight.”
The thin straw felt odd in Chico’s fingers. With the
other hats there was something to hold on to, but this
Up and over—in and out—Grandfather pulled the
delicate strands.
felt as though it would slip out of his fingers. Very

slowly, he began to weave.
There was silence for a time as Grandfather
watched him. Once or twice, he nodded. The boy had
learned to weave better than he had expected. Then
gradually, as Chico became more confident, his fingers
moved faster. He even looked up once from his work.
Grandfather shook his head.
“Careful, now. Not so fast. If you break a straw and
have to make a knot, the hat will be valued less.”
Chico glanced up at the old man and then slowed
down. He must do as Grandfather told him on this
hat. Still, he could not help letting his fingers move
quickly. They seemed to know by themselves when to
hold the straw firmly and when to loosen it. He had
never had this feeling with the other straw hats he had
woven. That had been plain, tedious work, but this was
fun. He closed his eyes and felt his hands move back
and forth in perfect rhythm.
Grandfather leaned back and felt behind him for
his pipe. The boy was doing well—very well. There
was nothing for him to do but watch and make
suggestions. His old hands were no good for weaving,
although once upon a time—. Absently, he tamped
tobacco into the black pipe bowl, his eyes on Chico’s
bent head.
Just so, many, many years ago, he had worked as a
young boy. He well remembered his father teaching

him how to carry on the art of his family. And
he had taught his daughter, Josefina, and she, too,
had been a good weaver. Now his family was gone.
Everyone was gone, even Josefina, who had left him
in anger.
The old man did not fool himself. He was sure that
when the boy went off to Cuenca, he would go forever.
Somewhere, surely, there would be a family waiting for
the boy, and they would keep him. Soon old Inca, the
rooster, would be his only companion.
Chico stopped his flying fingers and looked up.
He had come to the end of a straw. In a cheap hat he
would have stuck it in any old way or tied a knot. But
not in this one.
“What do I do now, Viejito?” he asked.
“Here, give me the knife.”
The old man picked up another piece of paja and
held it so that Chico could see. With his pipe clamped
tightly between his teeth, he tapered one end of the
new straw to a point. Taking the hat from Chico, he
did the same on the short piece of straw there. He
held the two tapered ends together so that they fitted
smoothly.
“Weave that into the hat now. There will be no
bump to show.”
Chico looked at the old man, respectfully. Who
would ever have believed that he knew so much about

hat weaving?
“That is a secret taught to our family by a weaver
from Jipi-Japa,” said Grandfather, sucking on his pipe
and blowing out gusts of blue-gray smoke.
“Jipi-Japa?” Chico glanced up quickly.
“That is a town on the coast of Ecuador. It is where
Panama hats were first made, long before they ever
heard of them in Cuenca.”
“But, I thought—”
“Sí, sí, I know. You thought hats were made only
in Cuenca. That is because you know very little. True,
Cuenca makes the most hats, but the finest ones have
always come from the coast where the straw grows.”
Chico was even more puzzled. This straw grew? He
looked at the slender, cream-white strands.
“Tell me about it, Old Man,” he begged.
“It is a long story,” Grandfather warned, smiling
down at the boy.
“Por favor.”
“Very well, but keep on working at your hat, and I
will tell you how Panama hats came to Cuenca.”
Chico settled himself comfortably as the story
began.
Eight
HOW PANAMA HATS CAME TO CUENCA
“First of all,” Grandfather said, “these hats were

woven on the hot coastland to shade the people from
the strong sun. How they learned that they could
make hats from a palm leaf, I do not know, but they
did.”
“Palm?”
Chico looked at the long slender strands of white
straw in his hand.
“Yes, that is a palm. Paja toquilla, or straw from the
toquilla palm, it is called. It grows only in the steamy
lowlands and is usually small, not over five feet high,
with broad green leaves that open up until they are
four feet wide. But the straw hunters do not wait
until the leaf has opened; they cut it when it is tightly
folded—like a, like a—.” He glanced around the room
for something that looked like a rolled-up leaf. “Like
HOW PANAMA HATS CAME TO CUENCA 81
an umbrella,” he finished, although Chico had no idea

what an umbrella looked like.
“It is cut and thrown into hot water. There it is
kept for several days, and then it is dried in the sun.
In that way it loses its green color and becomes
almost white.
“Finally, it is cut with a knife and shaped like a
comb, into strips as long as the leaf. Some strips are
coarse, and some are very, very fine. It all depends on
what type of hat they are meant for.
“Nowadays, most of this straw is sent to the
mountains to the towns of Cuenca, Azogues, and
Biblian, but it was not always so. Once, the only
weaving was done right there on the coast, and we
mountain people knew nothing of straw hat making.”
A blast of cold, damp wind swept through the
half-open door and whirled around the fire, blowing
up the ashes. The fire flared. Grandfather bent over
and pulled out a burning branch, then moved the pile
of hat straw farther away from the sparks.
Chico stopped work for a moment and looked up
at the old man. He was anxious for him to go on with
the story.
“It was very curious, the way we learned to weave,”
said Grandfather, tugging at his gray-white beard.
“Many years ago, at the time when García Moreno
was presidente—and a very good one, too—there was
trouble in the Province of Azuay. Cuenca is the capital

of the province, you know.”
Chico nodded.
“The mountain soldiers in Cuenca had a part in the
uprising. Therefore, they could no longer be trusted to
keep order or do what they were told. So troops were
brought up from the coastal provinces and stationed in
Cuenca.”
Chico looked puzzled. What did all these soldiers—
not that he did not like to hear about them—have
to do with Panama hats? Perhaps Grandfather had
forgotten what he started out to say and was telling a
different story!
“Well, this revolt, or trouble, did not last long. They
never do,” Grandfather said, waving his pipe. “And the
soldiers, who were far from their homes and families,
had nothing to do. So they sent back home to the
coast for hat straw and began to weave hats. That was
the first time they were ever made in Cuenca, I have
been told.”
“The soldiers, themselves, wove hats?” Chico
interrupted.
“Sí, pues.”
Chico laughed. He always thought of soldiers as
fierce men with spears and clubs—like the Incas. But
weaving hats!
“They could not always be fighting or marching,
you know,” Grandfather continued. “Most of the time

they just sat around the barracks. They must have
been cold, too, coming as they had from the hot coast
cities. Anyway, cold or not, they wove hats. Perhaps
they wanted to earn a little extra money by their
work.”
The boy looked down at his own hat. That was what
he was going to do. But it was slow work; the straw
circle had grown no more than a quarter of an inch in
all the time the old man had been talking.
“Did the soldiers stay in Cuenca?” he asked.
“No, they were finally sent back. But in the
meantime, the Cuencanos had learned the secret. And
do you know how?” Grandfather blew out a mouthful
of smoke and coughed.
Chico shook his head.
“Through the women!”
This was too much for Chico. Now, what could the
women have to do with it?
“The women sold fruit and cakes and little meat
pies to the soldiers. When they took their goodies
to the soldiers, they saw them weaving the hats. You
know how curious women are,” he said. “They stared
at the hats and then began begging to be shown what
they were doing.”
Grandfather raised his voice to imitate the women.
“This is what they said: ‘How do you do it? Where
does the straw come from? How do you weave so

quickly? Show me,’” he piped.
His voice dropped back to normal.
“At last, the men were too tired to resist longer. First,
one woman learned, then another, until all the women
in the town knew how to make hats. Why, those
soldiers even sent to the coast for more straw for them.
“Of course, the women soon let out the secret to
everyone in town. For a while it seemed as if all the
people were going to stop raising potatoes and corn
and fruit and do nothing but weave hats. Then the
excitement wore off, and they began to weave only in
their spare time. They found, just as you have, that it
was tiring to work too long at one time.”
Grandfather had noticed that Chico had to stretch
his back more and more often to get the kinks out.
His fingers moved slowly as he grew tired.
“It was not for some years that buyers from foreign
countries came to Cuenca to buy our hats,” Grand-
father said. “Then, when hundreds of hats could be
sold, even more people began to weave. Still, they did
so only in their spare time. I remember,” he chuckled,
“when a foreign buyer thought he could make the
people work better and faster in a factory. So he
gathered together the best weavers and put them to
work in a big house. He could not understand why
they could not weave. They looked so sad and worked
so slowly that he sent them home. The men wanted

to weave when they had finished their farming. The
women needed to talk while they worked. So, today,
everyone works at home.”
“And the soldiers?” Chico asked. He was worried
about them. What if the Cuencanos made so many
hats that no one bought those from Jipi-Japa and the
other coastal towns?
The old man stood up and stretched his arms as
he answered, “Oh, they went right on weaving. Their
people still make the best hats. The cheapest ones
come from Cuenca, but the hats from Jipi-Japa and
Montecristi are the most expensive.”
Chico looked crestfallen. What about this hat he
was weaving? That was not a cheap one.
The old man smiled.
“We have a few good weavers—as good as those on
the coast. My family, as I told you, were known as fine
Panama hat makers.”
The boy looked more cheerful.
“But why are they called Panama hats? You did not
tell me that.”
“Because they were first sold in Panama, a country
far to the north of us. But they are not made there.
Really, they should be called Ecuadorian hats.”
The old man picked up his gray wool poncho and
walked toward the door.
“That is enough story for now, Chico. See, the

storm has gone. Put up your hat and run on outdoors.
We need some water and more ichu grass to dry for
the fire.”
“But if I do not work on the hat—”
“If you work too much, it will not be good. No, that
is enough for one day. There is plenty of time, even
before Don Ernesto returns. You are weaving quickly.
Tomorrow you may weave again.”
And the old man, followed by Chico and the bear,
walked out into the freshly washed Paramos, where
the golden sunlight flashed from the mountain tops.
Nine
IN THE POTATO FIELD
And so Chico wove his hat. During the many

weeks that followed, there were storms that lashed
the little stone hut on the lonely Paramos, and there
were days of golden sunlight when not even the mist
fell until late at night. And Chico was content. In his
happiness at working on the hat and his love for the
Paramos, he almost forgot Cuenca. Almost, but not
quite.
Then there came a day when the hat was nearly
finished. There was nothing to do but tie off the brim
and trim the straw; then it would be done. Even
Grandfather said it was a good hat. But still, Don
Ernesto, the arriero, had not returned from the mines.
One morning Chico awakened early with Chan’s
wet, rough tongue licking his cheek. Sleepily, he
turned under his red poncho and looked toward the
fire. Old Man knelt there, blowing on the coals.

With each breath, his wrinkled, old cheeks blew out
until they were as smooth as Chico’s own. Then, as
he puffed, the skin collapsed like a burst fruit. Chico
watched and tried not to laugh. It was always so hard
for Grandfather to blow up the fire.
At the noise, the old man looked up. His eyes were
watery from the smoke.
“Caramba!” he exclaimed. “This wood is too wet. It
will never burn.”
Chico jumped out of his warm bed and pulled his
trousers and shirt around him.
“Let me do it, Viejito,” he said.
“It will burn no better for you,” grumbled the old
man, but he moved aside and made room for the boy.
Chico knelt down and crisscrossed the wood.
Gently, he pushed the hot coals underneath it and
threw on a few pieces of dry grass. Then he filled
his cheeks with air and puffed. The wood burst into
flames. He glanced at the old man out of the corner of
his brown eye.
“And why not? The wood was hot by the time you
got to it.” But Grandfather smiled, even though he
spoke severely.
While Grandfather put on the clay pot of water for
coffee, Chico glanced outdoors. It was still dark. What
was Grandfather doing up so early? He yawned and
IN THE POTATO FIELD 89
shivered in the morning cold.

The little fire blazed, and in a few minutes, the
water bubbled, boiled, and sizzled over the edge.
Grandfather lifted the pot off with a corn husk. While
Chico held the cloth sack half-filled with fine black
coffee, the old man poured hot water through it. The
dark brown liquid ran through into another pot. From
this each filled his own gourd and settled down to
drink.
Chico reached up and pulled down the brown sugar
cake. He added a few slivers to his own and gave some
to Chan.
Chico did not try to talk. He knew that Grand-
father was not happy until he had had his morning
coffee, and, as he said, taken some of the chill out of
his old bones.
As usual, Chan was bent on getting into mischief.
This morning he discovered the coffee pot and tried
to climb into it. Each time he stuck his nose over the
edge, the hot steam would burn him, and he would fall
backward. Chico put his hand over his mouth to keep
from laughing. Even Grandfather had to chuckle.
A ray of sunshine broke through the morning mist
and fell in a thin streak across the earthen floor. The
day had come.
Grandfather set down his cup and slapped his leg.
“Come on, Chico. We are going to work in the
potato field today. I have a feeling in my bones that

Don Ernesto will come soon, and the potatoes must
be ready to send down with him.”
Chico jumped up, spilling some of his coffee on one
foot. He grabbed the burned foot and hopped around
with it in his hand.
“Do you think he will come? When? Tomorrow?”
He had almost forgotten that Don Ernesto was
ever coming.
“I do not know when, but I think it will be soon.
Anyway, the potatoes should have been dug a week
ago.”
The old man picked up a hoe, put it over his
shoulder, and started toward the field. Chico hopped
along behind with Chan following him.
At the field the old man stopped. The green leaves
and purple flowers of the potato plants were gone now.
Only the leafless stems remained. It was time to pull
them out, harvest the potatoes, and plant a new crop.
“You start down at the far end of the field, Chico,
and work toward me,” he said.
The boy nodded and walked to the other end of
the potato patch. Bending over, he loosened the soil
around the plant with his hoe; then, grasping the
plant, he pulled it up and all the little potatoes with it.
He went on to the next one.
As he worked, digging into the soft earth for any
potatoes that remained buried, Chan dug, too. He

made the dirt fly until he caught a shiny black beetle
for his breakfast. Walking away proudly, he lay down
to eat, watching the boy as though he thought he
would try to take this fine morsel away from him.
Chico laughed and went on working.
Grandfather was the first to reach the center of the
field. He straightened up to ease his back and said,
as he looked back at the mounds of shining, yellow
potatoes, “We have a good crop this year to send to
Cuenca; that is, we will if you hurry up.”
Chico dug his hoe deep into the earth. In a few
moments, he, too, came to the center of the field.
“Ai-ya.” He dropped his hoe and stood up straight.
“That is hard work. When I get through here, I shall
never want to see another potato.”
“You will not say that by dinnertime,” answered the
old man, his eyes twinkling.
Chico laughed, for he knew he would be glad to eat
hot boiled potatoes by then.
Once more the two bent over and began to work.
This time they walked away from each other, down
the long row. On the next row, they moved toward the
center again.
Chico worked more quickly now, for Chan had
wandered away. He had found a new plaything.
Among the young potatoes in the other field, the little
bear dug busily until Grandfather saw him.

“Go on! Get away from there. Leave those plants
alone,” the old man shouted and waved his hoe. Chan
sat back on his haunches and watched the old man
with bright black eyes. Then, as soon as he saw he was
not watched, he got busy again.
When the field was half done, Grandfather threw
down his hoe.
“Ai-ya, I am tired,” he said, rubbing his hands
together. “And besides, this is enough cargo for one
trip. Let us rest.”
Chico was glad to follow the old man away from
the field. He threw himself down on the short, crisp
moss of the Paramos and leaned back against a rock.
Chan ran up and began to crawl over him. Chico
pushed him away and lay back so that he could look at
the deep blue sky.
A black speck wheeled high overhead. While Chico
watched, it grew larger and larger, circling over the
mountains. The boy raised his arm. There was the old
condor. Every day it flew over the Paramos looking
for food. Once it had come so low, when Chico was
out with Chan, that he had seen its red neck with
the white collar of feathers around it and the strong
curved beak. Chan had whined with fear, but Chico
had not been frightened. The giant condor was like an
old friend, a part of the Paramos.
But Chico’s thoughts were far from the Paramos.

Glancing at the old man who sat with half-closed eyes
in the sun, he said, “Viejito, what is it like in Cuenca?
Were you ever there?”
Grandfather made a grumpy noise in his throat and
answered, “Of course I have been there. Do you think
I have always lived in the mountains?”
“What is it like?” Chico repeated.
“It is a city, like any other,” said the old man, “with
a great many houses. Then, in the center of the town,
there is a great plaza with flowers and statues. And
around it are many buildings and the great cathedral.
The streets are always full of people, pushing each
other around and rushing to get somewhere. It’s not
like here, where we have all the room we need.”
Chico leaned toward the old man excitedly, his
brown eyes shining. To think he would see all that!
“What do the people do—so many of them? What
do they eat there?” he asked.
“Oh, they sell hats and bring in vegetables from
their farms to the market. And some of them have
stores where they sell cloth and shoes and tools.
Everyone does something different. And the food,”
the old man paused and ran his tongue over his lips,
“there are all kinds of food. On market days the
women set up little kitchens right on the street. As
you walk along, you can smell pork frying, chicken
roasting, and spiced rice boiling. Then there are trays

of sweet cakes and fruit. Oh, the food is good, that I
will say.”
“Won’t we have a fine time, Chan, in Cuenca?”
Chico asked happily, pulling the bear close to him.
“Think of all the things we shall see!”
“Well, you have not gone yet, and there is work to
be done,” said the old man. He lifted himself up from
the ground.
Grandfather sounded angry, but it was only because
he was unhappy. When he thought of Chico going
away, a lump came into his throat.
The two walked toward the field again. Chico
chattered all the way. They had just picked up their
hoes and started digging when the old man threw up
his head, listening.
“What—?”
Grandfather held up a finger to silence the boy.
Chico turned his head to one side and listened.
From the trail that led over the hill and past the house
came a faint noise.
Chico’s heart began to pound. Throwing down the
hoe, he started to run toward the house. At the corner
he looked for a moment and then turned back toward
the old man.
“It is, Old Man. It’s Don Ernesto. I can see him
coming up the hill.”
“Won’t we have a fine time, Chan, in Cuenca?” Chico
asked happily, pulling the bear close to him.
Chico jumped up and down with excitement.

The old man, shaking his head sadly, followed the
boy and stared down the trail. Yes, Don Ernesto had
arrived, and his boy, his Chico, whom he loved so
dearly, would leave him.
Ten
CHICO GOES TO CUENCA
Don Ernesto’s kindly, weather-beaten face beamed

when he saw Chico.
“Hola,” he called. “So, you got back safely? The
condors did not get you after all.”
Then, more seriously, he spoke to the old man. “I
worried about the boy after he left me. There was such
a storm that night.”
Chico opened his mouth, his eyes dancing, to tell
Don Ernesto all that had happened since he last
saw him, but Grandfather interrupted, “Wait until
Don Ernesto has some coffee, boy. Where are your
manners? And take the cargo off the mules.”
Chico ran quickly to the animals.
“No, Chico. Leave them,” called Don Ernesto. He
turned toward the old man. “I am not staying the
night this time. I must go at once. I am weeks late
now. But I shall have some coffee, muchas gracias.”

Don Ernesto moved toward the little hut, pulling
his red poncho off over his head as he talked. Chico
stood still, too stunned to move. He barely heard the
muleteer grumbling about the bad weather, the worn
trails, and the sick mules that had held him up so long.
If Don Ernesto was going right away, then he, Chico,
could not go.
Automatically, Chico threw a few handfuls of dry
grass to the mules. Then he went into the dark house.
Grandfather was already telling Don Ernesto all that
had happened on the Paramos. Don Ernesto sucked
in his breath in astonishment. When the old man had
finished, he stared at the boy before he spoke.
“And you found nothing, joven? Just as I said?”
His words tumbling one after another, Chico told
of the Prayer Book. When he lifted it out of the chest,
Don Ernesto turned it over and over, examining
it and reading the writing. He nodded his head
thoughtfully.
“Sí—es posible,” he murmured. “It may have
belonged to your mother. But what now, little one?
Are you content now?”
Chico drew a long breath and made ready to tell
Don Ernesto what he had planned. Grandfather
waved a hand for him to be quiet.
There was silence while Grandfather sucked on
CHICO GOES TO CUENCA 99
his pipe and Don Ernesto drank his hot black coffee,
sweetened with a little brown sugar. Then, suddenly,
the old man said, “Don Ernesto, the boy wants to
go to Cuenca with you. There, he feels, he will find
something about his mother and father and where
they came from.”
The arriero looked startled. He glanced at Chico’s
young face, shining with hope, and the eager, bright
eyes, and from that to Grandfather’s wrinkled, sad,
old face.
“Cuenca!” he exclaimed. “What would he live on?
Old Man,” he turned toward Grandfather accusingly,
“you know as well as I do how much it costs to live in
Cuenca. I would take care of him gladly—you know
that—if I could. But with all those mouths to feed, it
is all I can do to keep from starving.”
“Sí, Don Ernesto,” Grandfather said. “I know. But
you will not have to take care of Chico. He has a hat
to sell.”
“A hat!” Don Ernesto looked at the old man to see
if he was joking. “And how long will that keep him?
Perhaps a week.”
Chico’s heart sank.
For the moment, Grandfather forgot that he did
not want the boy to leave him. With flashing eyes, he
said, “This hat will bring fifty sucres—enough to feed
the boy for a long time.”
Don Ernesto looked at him as if he thought the old

man was crazy.
“Fifty sucres! It will if he has a gold nugget wrapped
up in it,” he laughed scornfully.
Grandfather said no more. Chico crawled up on the
bed and took down his bundle. Walking toward the
fire where the men sat, he held it out.
“You show him, Chico,” directed Grandfather.
The boy unrolled the cloth carefully, and with a flip
of his hand opened up the hat. It was almost finished.
The brim was not yet tied, and a fringe of long straw
hung down. Otherwise it was done. Silently, he
showed it to Don Ernesto.
The arriero stared. After wiping his hands on his
trousers, he took it between two fingers. Without a
word, he turned it around and around and looked
inside.
Chico watched him proudly. It was a fine hat. Even
he knew that. The light, thin straw was tightly woven,
and not a bump or knot marred it.
“Wheew-w,” Don Ernesto whistled.
Chico looked at him in surprise.
“This is a fine hat, a beautiful hat,” he exclaimed.
“I told you it was,” answered the old man.
“This is almost as good as a Montecristi.” Don
Ernesto could not seem to get over his surprise. He
looked from one to the other.
“Do not tell me the boy wove this. You must have,
Old Man, even if your fingers are stiff.”
Chico was hurt. After all the weeks of hard work he
had put on the hat, now Don Ernesto did not think
he had made it.
“Of course he made it, Don Ernesto. You know
these hands of mine can hardly weave the cheap ones,
let alone one like that. I showed him how, yes, but the
boy seems to have a knack for it.”
“Sí, that is it,” said Don Ernesto as if to himself.
“He has a knack. It is a knack only a few have. You
know that, Viejo. Surely the boy must come from—.”
“Not now, Ernesto,” broke in Grandfather. “I have
thought of it, too. We shall talk of it some other time.
Now—will you take the boy to Cuenca? He will never
be happy until he finds out who he is.”
Don Ernesto looked thoughtful. Outside, the mules
stamped their small hooves restlessly.
“Yes,” he exclaimed finally, “I’ll take him.
Somewhere there must be word of his family. It is
better that he find out.”
Chico was so surprised that he did not move. He
watched Grandfather. The old man’s face lit up happily
at first; then it grew sad.
“Well, do not stand there, boy,” said Don Ernesto.
“Get your things. We leave in a few minutes, for we
must cross the Paramos before dark.”
Don Ernesto and Grandfather filled the sacks

with newly dug potatoes and tied them on the mules.
Chico ran around like a wild thing, hunting his other
trousers and his new sandals. He did not forget his
mother’s shawl. He wrapped his fine hat and the
precious Prayer Book in it and tied them all up in
another cloth.
Chico was waiting when the men came back from
the potato field. He had his straw hat on, his poncho
thrown over his shoulder, and his bundle gripped in
one hand. He was ready to go.
Then, as he saw Grandfather plodding along,
his old head bent forward, he realized for the first
time that he was leaving him. In all his dreams of
going to Cuenca, he had not thought about leaving
Grandfather. He swallowed hard. Perhaps he did
not want to go after all. Perhaps he did not want
to leave the Paramos with its strong sunshine and
gray mists. And the towering peaks. And the condor
which circled overhead each day. And especially
Grandfather.
Don Ernesto started the mules down the trail.
“Come on, joven, we do not have all week,” he
called.
Then Chan ran out and stood on his hind legs,
pawing the boy’s legs.
“Caramba! I almost forgot you,” Chico exclaimed,
forgetting his sadness. Leaning down, he scooped

up the little bear and held him under his free arm.
Chan wiggled and licked his neck with his rough little
tongue.
“Come!” Don Ernesto half turned around to call
the boy and then stopped.
“What are you doing with that thing?” he
exclaimed.
“What?” Chico looked behind to see what Don
Ernesto was talking about.
“The bear, Chan. Put him down and come along,”
the arriero shouted impatiently.
“Leave Chan? But he is going to Cuenca with me,”
said Chico in bewilderment.
“Oh, no, my boy,” Don Ernesto said firmly. “We will
have enough to worry about without having Chan.”
“Don Ernesto is right, Chico,” Grandfather said.
“Chan would only be unhappy in the city. The dogs
would bother him day and night. Leave him to keep
me company.”
Unhappily, Chico handed the struggling bear to the
old man.
Don Ernesto started off down the hill, taking long
strides to catch up with the plodding mules.
“You must hurry, my boy,” said Grandfather.
Without a word, the boy took off his hat and stood
in front of the old man with bowed head. The old
man lifted a trembling hand and touched his head

with two fingers, blessing him.
“Be a good boy, Chico. Remember what I have
taught you. Do just as Don Ernesto tells you always.
May you find that which you seek. If ever you want,
come back to me, for here is always your home.”
Tears came to Chico’s eyes as he listened to the
kind, soft, old voice.
“Vamos—” Don Ernesto’s voice called from far down
the trail.
“Adiós, Old Man,” Chico said haltingly and turned
away to run after the mules as fast as he could.
“Vaya con Dios, my son. Go with God,” called the
old man after him.
At the last turn, before the trail dropped down
the hillside, Chico looked back. Through his tears, he
could barely see the old man, with Chan in his arms,
standing before the gray stone house. He waved.
Then they rounded a turn and Grandfather—and
the house—and Chan—were out of sight. Chico was
on his way to Cuenca.
Eleven
CUENCA
It was the end of the fourth day. For a long time

now, the train of mules, led by Don Ernesto, had been
following a steep, cobblestone road. At first, there
was a house only here and there; then gradually, they
became closer together until the road was lined with
them. Lean, hungry dogs, their ribs showing under
their skins, ran out from the whitewashed huts and
barked at the mules. Chico knew they must be getting
near Cuenca.
Once a man, wrapped in a woolen poncho, came to
the doorway of his brown mud hut to see what caused
the commotion. He waved and called, “Hola, Don
Ernesto. How are you? How went the journey?”
He looked curiously at Chico as he spoke and asked
the muleteer who he was.
“He is the huérfano—the orphan—of Don
Fernando at Chan-Chan,” Don Ernesto answered.

The man leaned back into the dark house and
called to someone. A woman came to the door. She
examined Chico from head to foot and shook her
head, setting her pigtail swinging.
“Poor little one,” she murmured.
Chico hung his head. A dull flush crept up under
his skin. Then, as they passed by, he forgot his shame.
He knew the journey was almost over, and he was
eager to arrive in the city.
The sharply pointed peaks of the higher Andes
were gone now. There were hills, of course, for Cuenca
was built at 8,000 feet, between the two mighty ranges
of the Andes. But these hills rolled away gently from
the valley floor. Their crowns were covered with tall,
slim eucalyptus trees, swaying gracefully in the breeze.
Their sides were patchworked with the green and
brown squares of the little farms that covered them.
Chico sniffed the air. It was softer here and did
not sting his nose as it did high in the mountains. It
carried the sweet odors of grass drying in the sun and
the smell of new-plowed earth.
Don Ernesto climbed to the top of a little hill on
the road. He turned back, smiling, and waved to the
boy.
“Aquí estamos—here we are,” he called.
Chico poked excitedly at the last mule to hurry it
CUENCA 107
on. Slowly, slowly, they mounted the hill until Chico

stood beside the arriero.
In front of him lay the city of Cuenca, its red tile
roofs flashing in the afternoon sun. Above these
rose the square towers and round white domes of
the churches. To Chico’s eyes there seemed to be a
thousand houses. He had never imagined Cuenca
would be so large.
Moving more quickly now, the little caravan wound
down the road to the banks of the Rio Tomebamba
that glittered past the town and rushed noisily down
the valley. They mounted the high, curved stone
bridge that crossed it and clattered across to a narrow,
winding street. They were in Cuenca.
Chico was so busy with the mules that he had very
little time to look around, but he did see that the street
was filled with people, all pushing and shoving to get
by. Chico’s mouth hung open in astonishment. Indian
women dressed in layer upon layer of orange, red, and
blue wool skirts passed him. Around their shoulders
were wrapped wool scarves, and on the head of each, a
cheap Panama hat was perched. The men wore white
trousers, like Chico’s, and long red ponchos.
Each person carried something. Some were bent
over under loads of firewood or red clay pots that
almost hid them from sight. Others carried fresh vege-
tables or crates of chickens. Even the tiny children,
Chico was so busy with the mules that he had very little
time to look around, but he did see that the street was filled
with people, all pushing and shoving to get by.
CUENCA 109
pattering along behind their parents and dressed in

tiny copies of their clothes, carried little baskets with
small packages in them.
As the Indians passed Don Ernesto and the boy,
they took off their straw hats and said, “Adiós, sus
mercedes,” in soft, slurred voices.
And Don Ernesto answered, “Adiós.”
Suddenly, they entered a street where few people
walked. Don Ernesto shouted happily, “Soon we shall
be home, Chico. There is the cathedral.”
Chico nodded. He was too bewildered to say
anything. He had never thought that a city could be so
noisy or so full of people. His ears ached already.
From overhead came a sharp “clang.” It was repeated
once. Then from rooftops all over the city, the clatter
of a hundred church bells arose. The few people in the
street stopped as if a hand had reached out and held
each one quiet while they worshipped God. The clamor
of bells was over in a moment, and once more, the
Indians began to move.
Don Ernesto led the way down the street past the
cathedral. The great wooden doors stood open. Chico
peered inside and then moved on, a prayer on his lips
that he would find what he had come to seek.
At one house with whitewashed walls and a pale
blue door, no different than the rest to Chico’s eyes,
Don Ernesto stopped. He pounded on the door
and rattled the lock. He shouted loudly and happily,

“Hermana, open up. Open the door. It is Ernesto.”
From inside came the buzz of voices and a shrill cry.
Then there was a patter of footsteps, and the double
doors flew open.
“Ernesto! Ernesto! Thanks be to God! Thanks be to
God; you are home again!”
A little woman in a black dress, two long pigtails
swinging behind her, stood at the door, her great dark
eyes full of tears. Don Ernesto threw one arm around
her and gave her a big hug.
“Well, sister, and did you think Ernestico had been
lost in the mountains?” he asked with a full laugh.
A head popped out from behind Tía Maria’s skirts,
then another, and another, until Chico lost count.
Gleaming brown eyes looked shyly at the uncle, gone
for so many weeks that they had almost forgotten
him. The same eyes, pair by pair, shifted to Chico and
stared.
Suddenly, Chico felt strange and unhappy. He
wished that he had stayed at home with Grandfa-
ther. Then he would not have had to meet all these
boys and girls who stared at him as though he were
some wild animal from the mountains. He looked
down at the ground and twisted his bare foot in the
cobblestones.
Before Chico could think about himself anymore,
CUENCA 111
Don Ernesto shooed the children out of the way

and drove the mules through the doorway into the
inner courtyard. There, with the help of Chico and a
barefoot servant boy, Don Ernesto took off the saddles
and sacks of potatoes. Then, clattering over the stones,
the animals were taken off to the pasture.
The house of Don Ernesto and his sister was built
around a square patio. A covered passage ran along the
edge, and from this opened the rooms. To Chico, who
knew only a one-room house, this house seemed large
enough for many more people. There were doors in
whatever direction he looked. Bright flowers and grass
grew in the patio. It was like a little garden inside a
house.
It did not take the children long to get over their
shyness. They threw themselves on their uncle while
Tía Maria stood by, her hands twisted into her big
apron, and smiled. Chico looked at the children
carefully.
There seemed to be three girls and two boys,
although he could not be sure of this, for they darted
back and forth so fast that he could hardly keep track
of them. One boy, about Chico’s size, wore straight
black pants that came just below his knees. His legs
were covered with long black cotton stockings, and he
wore a pair of high black shoes. The other little boy
wore white trousers, somewhat like Chico’s. The little
girls had on cotton dresses of blue and white and wore

little white and black shawls. Chico looked down at
his own ragged clothes and felt even more shy.
Amidst the chattering of the children came Don
Ernesto’s voice saying, “Here, niños, you have forgotten
your manners. I have brought you a visitor.”
He turned to his sister, Maria, and said, “Hermana,
this is Chico. He is the little orphan of whom I have
often told you. He lives with Don Fernando.”
The little woman threw up her hands and exclaimed,
“Ai-pobrecito.” She held the boy close to her for a
second, so close that Chico could smell the black cloth
of her dress.
The boys and girls lined up, and Chico could see
that they were like steps. The highest step was the
oldest girl; then came another girl, the two boys, and
then the smallest girl of all.
While he was still noticing this, he heard Don
Ernesto’s kind voice, the only familiar sound in this
strange place, saying, “Chico, these are my sister
Maria’s children. They are Juana, Olivia, Pedro,
Olmedo, and this is little Mariana.” As he spoke, he
pointed to each child.
The girls curtsied and giggled, and the boys bowed
stiffly. When he came to little Mariana, she rushed
forward, her tiny pigtail swinging, and threw her arms
about the boy and kissed him. Chico blushed. It was
CUENCA 113
the first time in all his life that anyone had kissed him.
All the children gathered around him now. They all
talked at once in high excited voices.
“What is it like in the mountains?” one asked.
“Are there any wild animals?” another asked.
“Is it true that a great giant lives high in the
Andes?” still another wanted to know.
Chico thought his head would come off as a result
of turning it back and forth to look from one to the
other. His mouth opened, but he had no chance to
answer. The questions were coming too fast.
Tía Maria, at last, said sharply, “That is enough now.
Leave the poor lad alone. You, Pedro, must get some
wood. Juana, you and Olivia go to the kitchen. Rápido.
If we are to have any dinner tonight, we must get to
work.”
Chico stood still in the center of the courtyard as
the children ran off in all directions. His ears rang
with the strange sounds.
“Well, don’t you want dinner, Chico?” Don Ernesto
asked, smiling. “I promise you it will be good. Tía
Maria is a famous cook.”
Chico glanced down at his dirty, torn trousers and
muddy hands. He was thinking that he could not eat
with these people in their fine clothes.
Don Ernesto understood.
“It is all right, Chico,” Don Ernesto said. “Tía
Maria understands. See, I, too, have torn clothes.

When you sell your hat, though, you can buy some
new clothes and, perhaps, even get a haircut.” He
reached out a big hand and rumpled Chico’s shaggy
hair.
Chico smiled. Almost happily, he followed Don
Ernesto along the passageway that led to the kitchen.
He had realized suddenly that he was hungry.
Outside the kitchen door, there was a wooden
bench with a tin basin on it. Don Ernesto dipped cold
water from a jug and poured it over Chico’s hands;
then Chico rubbed them with soap. In a few minutes,
he had most of the mountain mud off his face and
hands. When he had wet his hair and combed it, he
looked quite a different boy than the one who had
arrived.
When Chico was through, he found that Don
Ernesto had disappeared into one of the rooms. A
little lost, Chico started back toward the patio. He did
not know where to go, except there.
He had to pass the kitchen door first, and from the
kitchen streamed cooking odors like steam from a
kettle. Never before had Chico smelled such odors. He
stood there, sniffing hungrily.
Inside the kitchen all was abustle. Tía Maria
directed her oldest daughter, Juana, and spoke sharply
to Olivia when she got in her way. And all the while,
CUENCA 115
she worked busily at the well-scrubbed wooden center

table.
Chico slipped inside the door and looked around.
What a wonderful place! Imagine having a whole
room just for cooking! The kitchen was almost as large
as Grandfather’s whole house. The walls were painted
white, and the shadows made by the candle climbed
up them to the ceiling. In one corner stood a large
square stove with four holes in it. Over the four holes
hung wire hooks, and from each hook hung a black
iron pot. It was from these that the good smells came.
Tía Maria half turned, her full skirt swinging, and
asked, “Is that you, Pedro? Then fan the fire, por favor?”
Chico wanted to answer, but the words stuck in his
throat.
“Oh, it is you, little one,” she said, smiling. “Well,
you may help, too. Here—” she handed him a fan
made of broad strips of straw. “Sit here on the stool
and fan the charcoal.”
Chico certainly knew how to make a fire burn. He
sat timidly on the edge of the three-legged stool and
fanned. His arm moved back and forth furiously.
As the charcoal began to burn noisily, Tía Maria
said, “Chico, not so hard. Do not burn the house
down.” She spoke so kindly in her soft, whispering
voice that Chico was not frightened and even smiled
timidly up at her.
Chico fanned more gently, and the coals hummed

softly. While he worked, he watched Tía Maria
working at the wooden table. His mouth watered
when he saw her mix mashed potatoes with soft
yellow cheese, salt, pepper, and chopped green onions.
Tía Maria felt his eyes on her, and said, “These are
llapingachos, Chico. Have you ever eaten any?”
Chico shook his head shyly. Then he spoke up quite
boldly, “No, señora.”
“Well, you will tonight. And you will help cook
them, too,” she answered.
Turning toward the white stove with a flat potato
cake in her hand, she dropped the cake into a pan of
hot grease. Little bubbles rose around the edge, and
the cheese sizzled. The wonderful smell made Chico’s
mouth water. Tía Maria handed the boy a flat wooden
paddle and showed him how to slip it under the
potato patty and flip it over. Carefully, he did just as
she told him while she dropped more llapingachos into
the pan.
When the potato cakes were all cooking, Tía Maria
took out a small iron pot and began to mix a sauce.
To frying onions she added tomatoes, rich milk, and
creamy peanut butter. This bubbled gently on the back
of the stove while she removed a large piece of pork
that had been cooking in the largest iron pot.
Everything, at last, seemed to be ready. Don
CUENCA 117
Ernesto and Pedro and Olmedo and Juana were all

there. Only Mariana was missing.
Juana and Olivia helped their mother carry the
steaming dishes into the little room where a long table
was laid with spoons and dishes. First, there was a
fish soup with bits of parsley floating on the top and
potatoes swimming in its depths. Next came roasted
pork, fat and crisp, with the peanut and tomato sauce
on the top. Chico carried in the potato patties. There
were even fried eggs and boiled rice.
But still, Mariana had not come.
Chico was so hungry now that he could have eaten
a roast llama.
Doña Maria called once more and then said, “Do
not wait. Go on. When that naughty Mariana returns,
she may eat in the kitchen.”
As they sat down at the table, Tía Maria called
again, “Mari-a-na, Ma-ri-a-na—Venga. Come at
once.”
Then he heard no more, for, seated with the others,
he had already begun to eat his fish soup. All his
attention was given to his food.
Twelve
IN THE NIGHT
Chico moved restlessly on the straw-filled mattress.

His stomach was acting strangely. Perhaps, as Don
Ernesto had said, he had eaten too much of the rich
pork. But how good it had tasted. Even now he licked
his dry lips with the tip of his tongue.
It was the middle of the night. A candle gleamed
fitfully from behind the cloth screen that divided the
large, square, white-walled sleeping room. The sharp
bark of a dog sounded from the street. Somewhere in
the distance, a cock crowed.
Chico lay for a moment with eyes half-open. What
was Old Man doing now? Perhaps he, too, could not
sleep and lay propped up on one elbow, smoking his
pipe and watching the flickering fire.
A lump came into the boy’s throat as he thought
of Grandfather. It seemed such a long time since
IN THE NIGHT 119
he had been in the little stone hut on the Paramos.

Now, in the quiet of the cold night, he felt lonely and
strange. He wished that he had not come to this city.
He wished that he had stayed on the Paramos with
Grandfather.
Chico heard the soft voice of Tía Maria from the
other side of the screen. Turning toward it, he could
see the shadow of her small figure and her head, with
its long pigtail, nodding up and down as she asked,
“Pobrecito! Pobrecito! What will become of the poor
little one?”
“That I do not know, Hermana,” the deep voice of
Don Ernesto answered, “but the boy would come. He
would have eaten his heart out there in the mountains.
All his life he would have longed to know who he was.
The only thing to do was to let him come to Cuenca
to search.”
“And the old one? Was he not heartbroken to see
the boy go?”
“Ah, yes, but what could he do?”
“But, Ernesto, how will the boy find his family? It is
like searching for a needle lost in the ichu grass. What
will happen if he fails?”
“That is what worries me, Maria. There is only
one clue, but I have said nothing of it to the boy. You
have not yet seen the hat he wove. It is a fine one. It
is the kind made by only a few families in Cuenca or
Biblian. Now—this may seem unbelievable—but I

think that Chico is the son of some member of one of
those families. You may argue,” he went on stubbornly,
“but I believe that to weave fine hats, one must be
born into a family which has woven them for many
years. It is not something just to be learned from the
old man. Chico has the knack, and he must come by it
from his family.”
“What will you do, then?”
“I intend to ask quietly about the town. Perhaps
I shall even go to Azogues and Biblian and Cañar.
Surely, among those families who weave, someone
will remember if a little boy and his parents once lived
there.”
“And if you find his family?”
“Then Chico will go to them, of course, and go to
school just as I wanted him to.”
Chico turned on the straw mattress. He did not
want to live with strange people, even if they were his
family, he decided. He wanted to stay with Grandfa-
ther forever.
The dry straw rustled. He saw Don Ernesto hold a
finger to his lips.
“Chico?” Don Ernesto called softly.
“Sí, Don Ernesto?”
“Are you awake?”
“Sí, señor, I ate too much, I think.”
IN THE NIGHT 121
“Well, you must go to sleep.”

“Sí, Don Ernesto, but—”
Don Ernesto broke in, “No, go to sleep now. See, we
are all going to bed. We must be up early tomorrow.”
“Why, Don Ernesto?”
“Because tomorrow is Thursday. It is the day of the
Panama Hat Fair.”
Thirteen
THE PANAMA HAT FAIR
“Buy my meat cakes! Buy my sweets!” The shrill

voice of the food vendor carried over the heads of the
gaily dressed, chattering Indians.
“Empanadas—”
A wooden tray of hot meat pies was waved under
Chico’s nose. He sniffed the odor of spices, garlic,
and hot grease hungrily. From the little stoves set
up on the sidewalks (just as Grandfather had said)
came the smell of roasting chicken. There were great
clay jars filled with spiced rice, colored red with
achiote seeds. Hot boiled corn, each kernel as large
as a marble, sent up steam into the cold morning
air. Frying pork hissed and sputtered like small fire-
crackers. There was food everywhere. Chico had
never dreamed there could be so much. He skipped
excitedly. Later, when he had sold his hat, he would
THE PANAMA HAT FAIR 123
buy some. He would buy a little of everything.

“Cuidado!” someone shouted behind him.
Chico jumped aside, and none too soon. Two black
oxen, laden with giant sacks of charcoal, plodded
down the narrow street and right over the spot where
he had just stood. As he jumped, Chico heard a clatter.
He turned around and saw that he had bumped into
a tray of needles, buttons, and thread and knocked
them to the ground. They had been held by a little
street-seller.
“Perdón,” he cried and bent down clumsily to pick
up the thread which had rolled into the street.
The street-seller, looking at him angrily, exclaimed
loudly, “Ai! Look what you have done.”
She turned toward the neighboring vendors and
went on plaintively, waving her square hands in the air,
“Here I was, sitting quietly, trying to sell my poor little
things, when along comes this great, clumsy boy and
knocks them into the street. Who will buy my thread
now?” she wailed, holding up a tiny spool with dirt on
it from the gutter.
The other street-sellers nodded. They looked angrily
at Chico with their sharp black eyes.
“I am very sorry,” Chico repeated, his face a fiery
red. He escaped into the crowd of Indians, but the
woman’s shrill voice followed him down the street.
Chico had been up since dawn. When he had
slipped through the blue door into the cold morning

air, the streets were already crowded. Indian women,
wrapped closely in blue or red wool scarves, were
driving their stubborn pigs down the middle of the
street to market. Woodcutters staggered into town
under loads of wood, which rose high above their
black-haired heads. Last of all, people carried stacks of
Panama hats with long, uncut straw hanging to their
feet. All hurried toward the marketplace.
Chico carried his own hat still wrapped in cloth.
Timidly pushing his way through the crowds, he
came to the streets that led to the great square where
the Panama Hat Fair was held. It seemed as if the
buyers and sellers could not wait until they reached
it, for each street was blocked by crowds of Indians
with their hats. Little groups gathered around the hat
buyers. Everyone screamed or chattered. Chico was
bewildered. How could he make a buyer listen to him?
Chico picked out one buyer who was taller than the
others and whose black felt hat could be seen above
the Indians. He squirmed toward him and waited
at his elbow. A bargain was being made between an
Indian hat seller and the agent. Chico listened quietly
and watched the crowds surging by.
“Seven sucres, señor, not a penny less.”
The man with the hat was a short, barefooted
Indian in white cotton trousers. When he spoke, his
face wrinkled and twisted earnestly.

“Seven! For this hat?” The buyer pointed scornfully
at the coarsely woven straw. “Three, no more.”
“It is a good hat. See.” The Indian turned it around
and around to show all sides. But he was careful to
hold his finger over the spot where he had spilled his
coffee this morning.
“As it is you, and you have bought many of my hats,
I will take six,” he said with a haughty smile.
The agent sniffed. He stared out over the crowd
of people as though he had lost interest. His eyes
wandered toward the market square and then back to
the Indian.
“Four,” he mumbled.
The Indian threw up his rough hands.
“Five, but I am being robbed,” he exclaimed.
The buyer counted the five sucre pieces into the
other’s hand. He reached for the hat and threw it
down on the mounting stack beside him.
“Do not forget to bring me your hat next week,” he
said agreeably.
The Indian nodded. He was as satisfied with the
bargain as the buyer. Each had known from the start
how much the hat was worth, but it was necessary to
dicker over the price.
Now it was Chico’s turn. He gulped once and found
his voice.
“Señor—”
No answer.
“Señor, if you please.”
The man turned abruptly, and Chico jumped.
“What is it, boy? I am busy now.”
“My hat—” Chico whispered.
The man shook his head. But Chico had already
begun to unwrap the Panama. The buyer watched as,
bit by bit, the finely woven hat appeared.
Chico’s hand trembled as he handed it over.
The man turned it over and looked inside, counting
the number of rings in the crown.
“M-mmm—where did you get this?” he asked.
“I made it, señor,” Chico managed to say.
“You?” The buyer looked doubtfully at the boy.
Before Chico could answer, he went on, “No matter, I
cannot buy it.”
Not buy it! Chico looked dazed. Everyone had said
it was a good hat!
“Take it to the American buyer—that two-story
house down there,” the man said, pointing down the
street. “I only buy ordinary hats, not expensive ones.”
Chico laughed shakily. The man had really fright-
ened him, he thought, as he hurried down the street
toward the Casa Americana.
At the tall, white house, the double doors were
open. Chico walked into a big room piled high with
Panama hats. On one side of the room sat three young

boys, each with a hat in front of him. Chico stopped
to watch them. They were rubbing a yellow-white
paste into the straw. This must be the sulfur bath
which whitened the hats. The boys’ hands moved so
fast that the hats were blurred.
A tousle-headed boy sneezed and looked curiously
at Chico. He pointed toward the stairs when Chico
questioned him, and said, “El Americano? Through
there, then upstairs.”
Chico climbed the steep wooden stairs, looking
down on the rows and rows of hats drying and
bleaching in the sunlight. He entered another large
room. In the very center, almost hidden by a tumbled
pile of hats, sat a dark-haired man.
This must be the American, Chico, who had never
seen a foreign person, decided. The man’s black-rimmed
spectacles glinted as he turned his head from the hat in
his hand toward the agent standing near him.
“Too high! Can’t use it,” he said curtly.
The American was measuring the crown and brim
of each hat with a little ruler. When the hat seemed to
be the right size, he nodded and threw it down beside
him. When it was too high in the crown or too narrow
in the brim, he handed it back to the agent and shook
his head.
Suddenly, as though he had eyes in the back of his
head, the man turned and said, “What is it you want,

boy?”
“Here, señor.” Chico stepped forward quickly and
gave him the hat.
The American pursed his lips and set his glasses
more firmly on his nose.
“Did you make this?” he asked, looking at the young
boy.
Chico nodded.
“It is a very fine hat.”
Chico smiled.
“The brim is a little too narrow and the crown too
high for this year’s fashion. See—this is the size we
want.”
The man measured two straws and broke them off.
These he laid alongside the hat—four inches for the
crown—five for the brim.
Chico, himself, could see that his hat was wrong.
His crown was taller than the brim was wide.
“Where did you get these measurements?” the
American went on.
Chico shook his head. He had had no measure-
ments, he said. Grandfather had shown him how to
make it.
“Well, that is the reason it is old-fashioned, then.”
The man looked at Chico kindly. Did he see his
mouth trembling?
“I am sorry, my boy. We have no sale for this hat

now. But, I tell you, this is a fine weave, as good as
many we buy for fifty sucres. Here is what I will do:
you take these straws,” he handed the measuring
straws to the boy, “and make me a hat just like this
one, with the crown as high as the short straw and the
brim as wide as the other. I will pay you fifty sucres for
such a hat. And I will buy as many as you can bring
me. How is that?”
He sat back and smiled.
“You do not want this hat then?” Chico dragged the
words out. He could not believe it.
“No, I am sorry.”
Chico turned away slowly, gripping the unwanted
hat in his hot hands.
“Where do you live, boy?” came the American’s
voice.
“No place.”
“But your name? Who is your family? Perhaps I
know them.”
“Chico, señor,” he whispered.
“And the last name?”
“Nothing more—just Chico.”
Before the man could say anything, Chico stumbled
out of the room and down the stairway. Slowly, he
went out into the street. He stared blindly at a white-
washed wall on the opposite side.
Just Chico! Chico from nowhere. That was all he

would ever be now. He could not sell his hat. His
plans were over.
Fourteen
IN THE CATHEDRAL
Chico walked slowly along the narrow sidewalk. He

was careful not to go near the crowded streets that led
to the marketplace. He did not wish to see the fine
clothes and rich food now.
Poor Chico! His brown eyes were dull, and his full
lips curved down like the rind of a melon. Both hands
clutched the unwanted hat. His feet, in their woven
white sandals, padded aimlessly over the rough cobbles.
Chico was really unhappy. This was much worse
than finding out that he was an orphan. Then there
had been something to do and something to plan.
There was nothing he could do about this.
Chico was ashamed to have to tell Don Ernesto
that he had not sold his hat. Instead, he would wander
around the town until dark and perhaps go to the
cathedral and pray as Grandfather had taught him to
do when he needed help. When it was late, he would

slip into bed unnoticed.
A sharp ting-a-ling made Chico raise his head.
He was just passing a tiny, one-roomed shop. In the
doorway sat an old man on a low wooden stool. His
gray head was bent. Ting-a-ling. The sound came from
a silver plate which the old man struck over and over
again with a little hammer.
The old man lifted his head and smiled, showing his
toothless gums, and said, “Buenos días.”
“Buenos días, señor,” Chico replied in a low voice.
“How do you like the plate?” The old man held it up
for Chico to see.
“It is very nice.” Chico’s head bent lower to examine
it. “It is tin?” He had never seen this bright metal
before.
“Tin?” The silversmith laughed. “No, señor. This is
silver. And this, also.” He reached behind him and
held up a bracelet. The silver in this had been spun
like a piece of thread. The silver thread was wound
around and around, making a delicate pattern inside a
framework of solid silver.
“Where have you been that you do not know silver
from tin?” asked the old man good-naturedly.
“I have always lived in the mountains, señor,” Chico
answered, waving his arm toward the faraway peaks of
the higher Andes.
IN THE CATHEDRAL 133
“Ah, well, then, no wonder you do not know about

the silver workers of Cuenca. We are famous all over
the world, though.”
The silversmith reminded Chico of Grandfather.
He would have liked to stay and talk to him more, but
he could think of nothing to say. The old man bent his
head and started to tap-tap-tap on the plate. Chico
wandered away.
The empty sunlit street led right to the plaza.
Chico looked at the large square curiously. Yes, it was
just as Grandfather had said. There were the beds of
flowers that made pictures and words. The tall statue
of General Calderón, who had liberated Ecuador from
the Spanish Crown, was in the center. And there was
the bandstand where the band would play on Sunday.
Chico sat down on a bench in the warm sun. His
unhappy frown deepened when he saw a policeman
staring at him. Perhaps poor people in ragged clothes
were not permitted to sit in the park. He got up and
moved away.
Suddenly, a bell clanged. Then came shouts and the
shrill voices of young boys. He looked around. Boys in
black school-boy suits were streaming from a nearby
building, swinging their books by straps.
In the midst of one laughing group, Chico saw
Pedro, Don Ernesto’s nephew. And he was coming
right toward him. Chico looked around. Where could
he hide? He did not want Pedro to see him, for he did

not want to tell him about the hat. Not yet.
The heavy wooden doors of the great white
cathedral stood open. Chico crossed the uneven stone
pavement and slipped inside. There he crouched
quietly until he heard the boys pass by.
The cathedral was empty, or almost so. On one
side, near a small altar, knelt an old woman dressed in
black. At the far end of the church, the padre moved in
front of the main altar.
Chico removed his battered straw hat and crept
farther down the center aisle. With half-open mouth,
he stared around at the high-vaulted ceiling and tall
stone pillars. Across the ceiling stretched long chains
of red and green paper flowers. Fresh flowers covered
the altars and overflowed to the aisles. Grandfather
had told Chico about the cathedral, but he had never
imagined that it could be so beautiful. This was like
heaven itself.
Chico hardly noticed when someone came down
the aisle behind him. He looked up, though, when
a heavy man with a round, full face passed him. It
was obvious that this must be some great man of
the town. He was dressed in a black suit and a pair
of shining black shoes. As he walked with measured
step, he held up his shiny cane to keep it from
tapping on the stone floor. He walked straight up to
the altar, bent his knee, and turned to the padre.

“Buenos días, Padre,” he said in the slurred, tight-
lipped, yet soft speech of Cuenca. “And is everything
ready for the fiesta tonight?”
The man’s bold brown eyes wandered over the
decorations, pondered on each, and then moved on.
He seemed satisfied until his eyes reached the figure
of the Jesu Cristo on the right of the great altar. Then a
reproachful look came over his face.
“Have none of our good people found it in their
hearts to give our beloved Christ a new hat for the
celebration?” he asked in a mild tone.
As if tied together by the same string, the padre, in
his long black robe, and the boy, Chico, swung toward
the figure. Their eyes examined the statue of Christ.
It was true. The Panama hat, which is placed on all
the beloved figures in the churches of Cuenca, was old
and soiled. Chico’s hand, hidden by his knee-length
poncho, tightened on the fine one he held.
“We must have another one at once,” said the rich
man in a firm tone.
He looked around. He spied Chico.
“Here, boy. Run to the hat dealers and tell them
we need a new hat. I, myself, Don Saraceno, will pay
for it.”
Chico gulped. His cheeks flamed red, and he took a
deep breath.
“Señor, I have a hat,” he gasped.

“Yes, my boy, I see you have one.” Don Saraceno
smiled as though from a great distance, as he looked at
Chico’s own ragged hat. “But it is little better than the
one we have now. There must be a new one. The finest
that money can buy.”
A look that must have come, at one time or another,
into the eyes of all his ancestors crept into Chico’s
eyes. It was as if a veil had been drawn over them. In
the place of a timid little boy, there stood a bargainer
with something to sell.
Slowly, as though unwilling even to show his hat,
Chico unrolled it and flipped it open with a snap of
his wrist. There was no doubt about it; it was a fine
hat, finer than any of the Cuencanos had ever given to
the Jesu Cristo.
In Cuenca everyone knows the value of hats. The
padre, as well as the rich man, knew that this was a
hat worth money. Over Don Saraceno’s face came the
same look that had changed Chico’s. These two, the
man and the boy, were going to bargain.
“How much?” breathed Don Saraceno. He ran his
fingers over the soft, pliable straw but looked at it as if
it were not much of a hat.
“Seventy sucres.”
If Don Saraceno had not been in the church where
they had to whisper, he would have snorted. Seventy,
indeed! Did the boy take him for a fool? Why he,
himself, had once been a boy not much different than
this one. He, too, had worn a poncho and sandals. It
was only by hard work—and clever bargaining—that
he had become the richest man in town.
“Thirty,” he whispered.
The padre stood by silently. It was not strange to
him that these two should bargain for a hat as a gift to
the church. These were his people, and bargaining was
their life. It was as much a part of them as the deftness
of their hands.
“Sixty,” answered Chico stubbornly. Old Man had
told him that the hat was worth at least fifty sucres,
and that is what he would have. Moreover, he needed
the money for his search for his family.
But Don Saraceno’s next price was forty. Chico knew
that by the rules of bargaining, he should say fifty, and
the hat would finally sell for forty-five. He decided on
a bold move. Without another word, he rolled up the
hat and began to walk slowly away from the altar, as
though the business no longer interested him.
There was a moment of silence. Chico could feel
the eyes of the padre and the rich man on his back.
“Pssssst.” Don Saraceno’s whisper floated down the
aisle. “Fifty sucres, then, but not a centavo more.”
Chico had won. Trembling with excitement, he held
out both hands while the man counted the silver into
them. When Don Saraceno tried to give him some

paper money, he shook his head stubbornly. That was
only paper. It was the silver he wanted, no matter how
heavy it was. And it was heavy. When he had filled his
two front pockets, his trousers hung down so that he
had to tighten the string around his waist. Just wait
until Don Ernesto and Tía Maria and Pedro saw it all!
Chico could hardly wait now to get back to Don
Ernesto’s. Murmuring an adiós to the padre, who stood
by with twinkling brown eyes, he started off.
“One moment, my son,” the padre called softly.
Chico turned around guiltily. Perhaps the padre was
angry that he had sold the hat in the cathedral.
“Who are you, my son?” he asked. “What is your
name? Your face is familiar to me, but I am sure I have
never seen you in the church before.”
All the joy went out of Chico. For a moment, he
had forgotten that he was no one.
“My name is Chico, Padre,” he answered, so low
that the priest had to bend to hear him.
“Chico what, my boy? Where do your people live?
From the fine hat you brought, they should be well
known to me. Not many of our people can weave so
well.”
The gentleness of the padre brought tears to Chico’s
eyes and loosened something hard around his heart.
He would not mind telling him about himself.
Chico could hardly wait now to get back to Don Ernesto’s.
“My name is just Chico, Padre,” he said. “I am an

orphan. I do not even know my other name. That is
why I needed to sell my hat, so that I might search
in Azogues and Cañar for my family. Don Ernesto
said that perhaps my family had lived there.” Then he
explained that Don Ernesto had found him on the
Paramos.
The old padre looked sad. He patted the boy’s arm
as he listened. He did not tell him not to worry. He
understood his people and knew that, to be happy,
they must know their bit of tierra.
“Have you no idea where to look, my son? There are
many families in those towns. You might look forever.”
“None.” Chico shook his head hopelessly.
Then he remembered. The Prayer Book! Surely, if
anyone did, the padre would know about the Prayer
Book.
The boy tugged eagerly at his back pocket. He
pulled out the weather-stained little book and handed
it to the padre.
As the padre read the few letters on the first page
and examined the book, he became more and more
thoughtful. Once more he looked closely at the boy
and nodded his head a little.
“My son, let me keep this book tonight,” he said.
“Perhaps in the records of the church I may find
something. Be of good hope. Perhaps we shall find out
who you are. Run home now to Don Ernesto before

he worries about you. Give him my greetings. And
come back tomorrow, for I may have news for you.”
The padre blessed the boy and, with a wave of his
hand, dismissed him.
Chico walked slowly out of the church. He was
happier than he had been in a long time. Once on the
street, he broke into a run. He could hardly wait to
get back and tell Don Ernesto all that had happened.
With the silver clanking against his legs, he ran
through the plaza and toward Tía Maria’s house.
Darkness was just falling.
Fifteen
THE FIESTA
“Look, Don Ernesto! Look, Tía Maria! See what I

have!” Chico shouted, bursting through the doorway
and into the courtyard.
Before the startled eyes of the arriero and his
sister, he began to take the money out of his sagging
trousers.
“Oh!” exclaimed the little dark-eyed woman.
“Where have you been? What have you done?”
Stumbling over his words, Chico told them the
story. Juana and Olivia and Pedro ran out from the
kitchen and listened. Pedro touched the pieces of silver
respectfully. It was a rare thing to see so much money.
“And you got fifty sucres? From Don Saraceno? That
was good bargaining, my boy. You will get along.” Don
Ernesto laughed, clapping Chico on the shoulder with
his big hand, and Tía Maria smiled delightedly.
THE FIESTA 143
“Sí, sí, and the padre is searching the records to

find out who I am. Perhaps tomorrow he will know.”
Chico’s round face was glowing with happiness.
Don Ernesto and Tía Maria glanced at each other,
then shook their heads doubtfully. But they smiled to
Chico and nodded as though all his troubles were over.
Chico noticed for the first time that everyone in the
family was dressed up. Tía Maria wore a new black
dress, and a black cloth covered her head and was
wrapped around her shoulders. Pedro was so clean
that he sparkled. All the others, even Don Ernesto,
were dressed in their finest clothes.
“Chico, you are back just in time,” broke in Pedro
excitedly. “Did you not know about the fiesta tonight?
We are all ready to go. This is the big fiesta of the year,
and everyone will be there.”
Chico looked down at his same torn old clothes
and then glanced up at Don Ernesto. How could he
go to a fiesta like this?
“Ah-ha!” exclaimed Don Ernesto, smiling broadly.
“I wondered when you would think of that. Well, are
not you a rich man now? You can afford to buy new
clothes.”
“Can I? Can I, really?” Chico’s face was all smiles
again. “But, see, it is already dark.”
“It is fiesta night. The shops will all be open. Vamos.
Let us go.”
Pedro and Chico ran on ahead. Don Ernesto and

Tía Maria came next, and the other children followed
behind. At first, the street was dark and quiet and
cold, but, as they came near the plaza, they saw more
and more people, and lights blazed in the square.
In front of a large shop—at least, it seemed large to
Chico—the boys waited for Don Ernesto. Tía Maria
and the others went on their way by themselves.
Chico stared when they went inside. The long
wooden shelves were loaded with cotton and silk and
wool cloth in every color. Lanterns and saddles hung
from the beams. Hoes and wooden rakes stood in the
corners. This store seemed to have everything in the
world gathered inside it.
A short, slender man with shiny black hair leaned
over the well-worn counter and asked sharply, “Qué
quieres—what do you want?”
“Well, señor,” answered Don Ernesto, as though he
were used to the abruptness of store clerks and was
not to be hurried, “we want some clothes for this boy.”
The clerk turned small black eyes toward Chico. He
looked him up and down, from his brown hair to his
tough feet in their cotton sandals. Chico felt himself
shrinking.
Pedro tugged at his uncle’s sleeve and whispered
in his ear. Don Ernesto looked doubtfully at Chico
and shook his head. Then, his eyes smiling, he spoke
THE FIESTA 145
up loudly to the clerk, who leaned on the counter as

though he were already tired.
“We want a good black suit, some black stockings,
and some high shoes—everything just like the school-
boys wear.”
Chico looked up quickly. He smiled at Pedro. How
had Pedro guessed just what he wanted? He had been
afraid, himself, to ask for them. He had thought Don
Ernesto would say that a mountain boy should wear
white trousers and a poncho.
The clerk stood up. This was a real sale, not just a
few centavos such as his kind usually bought. Bowing
to Don Ernesto, he led them to the end of the store
where the clothes hung.
As if in a dream, Chico felt clothes being tried on
him. Don Ernesto argued loudly with the clerk that
this suit was too small, the other too big, and the last
too expensive, until Chico felt sure the clerk would
refuse to sell them anything. He wanted to tell Don
Ernesto that any one was good enough, so long as it
was a black suit. But the more Don Ernesto argued,
the more eager the clerk was to serve them.
At last, one fit. The tight knee-length pants felt
funny after his long loose ones. Chico rubbed his hand
over the coarse wool.
Don Ernesto pulled out a white cotton blouse with
a wide collar that opened at the neck. Then, with
long black stockings and a pair of high-laced black

shoes, Chico was dressed. His feet felt stiff in the hard
leather.
Pedro led him to a cracked yellow mirror. Chico
stared at the strange creature that stood there. Then he
burst out laughing. Was this he? Was this Chico of the
mountains?
When the bill was paid, Don Ernesto left them.
When it was time to go home, they would meet, they
agreed. Until then, Pedro could show him the fiesta.
First, Pedro insisted that Chico must have his hair
cut. Timidly, he climbed into the big chair at the
peluquería. He jumped a little when he felt the cold
scissors on his neck, but otherwise, he sat as still as a
statue. When it was over, he turned and saw that his
hair was clipped short up the back and short on top.
He wondered what Grandfather would think of him
now.
“Come on, Chico,” Pedro called. “I am hungry. Let
us go to the marketplace for our dinner.”
Chico realized suddenly that he had not eaten
since early morning. What a lot had happened in that
one day!
He followed Pedro through the crowds of gaily
dressed Indians to the central market. Here the
lights gleamed, and people walked back and forth
chattering.
Chico stared at the strange creature that stood there.
Pedro stopped in front of a little sidewalk kitchen.

His face was serious as he looked over the food. Then
he pointed to two large pieces of roast chicken with
crisp, brown, sizzling skin. The woman wrapped them
separately in green banana leaves, and each of the boys
paid for his share. Chico was so hungry that he wanted
to sit down at once and eat. But Pedro said they had
only started and led him from one kitchen to another.
At last, their hands were full of the little bundles
of food. They had boiled rice, rich with red-colored
fat; great kernels of white corn, boiled until the skin
popped; slices of fried pork; and small rolls of white
bread such as Chico had never tasted before. They
found a bench to sit on and silently ate their way
through the mountain of food. Then, sighing happily,
they smiled at each other.
Chico liked his new friend, Pedro. At first, he had
been too shy to talk to him. But Pedro’s brown eyes
sparkled with fun, and he talked so much that Chico
could not remain timid for long. Soon he, too, was
chattering, asking about this thing and that.
Chico, now that he had eaten, waited for Pedro to
tell him what they would do next. Pedro knew every-
thing about the city. If Chico stayed there for a year,
he would never, he thought, know as much.
Just then, from overhead in the black sky, came
a loud “pop.” The real stars were overshadowed by a
THE FIESTA 149
burst of sparkling lights. Chico jumped. He was so

startled that he almost climbed under the table. Pedro
laughed.
“It is the signal that the fiesta begins. Let us hurry
to the church.”
Pedro led the way. Keeping away from the crowded
streets, he ran down the alleys until they came once
more to the great plaza where the cathedral stood. The
doors stood open, and the light of a hundred candles
poured out into the street. Inside, the church was
crowded with worshippers. There was barely room for
the two boys to slip in and stand against the back wall.
Chico watched Pedro. When he knelt on both
knees and bowed his head, Chico did the same.
The service seemed to be over, and the church
began to rustle with the excited movements of many
people. The women, in their black head cloths, looked
up at the red paper rosettes which decorated the walls
and ceiling. Incense drifted through the warm, candle-
lit air.
Chico felt an elbow poke him gently. Pedro was
pointing toward the figure of the Christ. Chico looked
and saw his fine hat resting on top of the figure. He
nodded his head to show Pedro that it was his hat. A
fierce pride rose in him to think that he, Chico, had a
part in this beautiful celebration.
From the far end of the cathedral, voices suddenly
rose in a stately chant. Everyone stood up and peered

toward the sound.
“The procession is forming,” whispered Pedro.
Chico stared. Down the long aisle came pairs of
figures, one pair after another. Each person carried a
long white candle, its flame flickering. As they walked,
they chanted solemnly.
As the procession moved on toward the doors,
other people slipped into line behind the last couple.
Slowly, like a giant serpent, the line grew longer and
wavered toward the doors. The chant increased.
At last, the end of the procession came opposite the
two boys. Pedro grasped his friend’s arm and pulled
him along. Before Chico knew it, someone had thrust
a lighted candle into his hand, and he was walking
beside Pedro in the line.
The procession wound in and out and around the
plaza. It was so long that sometimes the dueño, who
had paid for the mass and bought the candles, was right
behind Chico and Pedro, who were almost the last.
Then, suddenly, a rocket burst overhead and
showered them with stars. Then came another and
another. The procession broke up. The neat double line
of people became a crowd of milling, jostling, laughing
people. Now the real fun would begin.
That was a wonderful night for Chico. It was his
first fiesta, and everything was new. He stared and
THE FIESTA 151
stared at the fireworks that shot up into the air. He

gaped at the hundreds of people in their holiday
clothes. He drank the cold, sweet drinks which a man
in white clothes sold from a little wagon.
Pedro soon found some of his school friends. At
first, Chico was shy, but before long, he was part of
the group that raced from one section of the plaza to
another. Sometimes they played tag among the crowds
of people. Then, when they were tired, they sat down
to watch the sights.
A group of Panama hat weavers was dancing in
one corner of the plaza. Each person was dressed in a
mask. Some looked like bears, some like goats. They
danced back and forth and around each other in a
slow, stiff-legged dance. One man beat a drum.
Later, a group of other dancers came down the
cobblestone street. They carried a long pole with
streamers attached to the top. Holding the streamers
in their hands, the dancers pranced in and out around
the pole.
Above all, there was music. In the bandstand, the
military band played heartily. It set Chico’s feet to
tapping. It was so loud and gay. When these players
were tired and went off to search for a cool drink,
a group of Indians with their own pipes and drums
began to play, so that the people all started to dance.
And the fireworks went on. There was always some
new burst that made the people gasp and stop their
dancing to watch.
It was late, and Chico’s eyes were dazed with all
the sights, when Don Ernesto and Tía Maria pushed
through the crowd, looking for them. Tía Maria’s
children followed, little Mariana rubbing a sticky fist
into her sleepy eyes.
Don Ernesto saw them first, and said, “Come,
Pedro, it is late. We must get home.”
“Where is Chico? You have not lost him, have you?”
Tía Maria asked.
Chico stepped forward. “Here I am, señora,” he said.
“Is it really you? I did not know you,” she said in
surprise.
Chico smiled. Tía Maria had not recognized him in
his new clothes.
“The bonfire has not been set off yet. Chico must
see that. Can we not stay a little longer?” begged Pedro.
Just then a deep cheer rose from the hundreds of
people in the plaza. Everyone turned to face a giant
pile of wood that had been set up in the square. Don
Ernesto lifted the smallest girl to his shoulder, and the
boys crawled through the legs of the people to get up
front.
There was a deep hiss from the wood. Sparks shot
out. Before Chico’s startled eyes, the bonfire turned
into a shimmering mass of light. It burned brightly.
THE FIESTA 153
A great “A-h-h-h-h-h-h” burst from the crowd.

Slowly, the light of the fire died down. The people
began to move out of the square. The lights went out
as Don Ernesto and his family walked toward home.
Chico sighed.
The fiesta was over.
Sixteen
THE DISCOVERY
Chico kicked idly at the round cobblestones of the

street and then anxiously examined his shoe. Wetting
his finger, he plastered down a bit of black leather that
had scuffed up and walked on, lifting his feet high. At
the corner of the plaza, he stopped and looked down
the empty streets.
It was the middle of the morning, but the town
was almost deserted. Now that the weekly fair was
over, the Indians had returned to their little farms.
The only people on the street were a short woman in
a black dress and a young girl, jogging along on bare
feet, a market basket over her arm. Chico moved aside
politely to let them pass.
Down at the far corner of the plaza, Chico could
see Cholito, the policeman, in his brown cotton
uniform. Chico knew him well now, for when he went
THE DISCOVERY 155
out to play at night with Pedro and the other boys,

they would often stop to talk to him.
Chico turned down the street toward him. The boy’s
face was wrinkled up in thought.
Four days had passed since Chico had sold his hat
and gone to the fiesta. The next morning, as early as
he could lift his sleepy head, he had hurried eagerly
to the cathedral. There, an old man with a long gray
beard had told him the padre had been called away
from town. He might not be back for a week.
“And did he leave no word for me?” Chico had
asked anxiously.
“None,” had been the reply.
All Chico’s happiness had left him. Surely, if the
padre had found something, he would have left word.
It was certain that he knew nothing. But still, as Don
Ernesto said, Chico must wait until the padre returned
before he began his search in the towns of Azogues
and Cañar.
The waiting was long. Never before in his life had
Chico found the days so long.
The first day had not been so bad, for Pedro had
taken him to school with him. Chico had sat on a
hard bench with the line of other boys and watched.
The schoolroom was large and square with white-
washed walls. On one side, next to the street, were the
windows, but even then the room was rather dark. The
teacher, la profesora, in a long black dress, stood at the

end of the room.
Chico had not liked the school very much. His legs
had ached sitting still on the bench for so long. And
the steady buzz-buzz that arose from the students as
they studied their lessons out loud made his ears ring.
Then, too, the other boys were so curious about him
that they kept whispering questions. He was happy
when the bell rang and they could all run outdoors.
There was nothing to do the next day. Don Ernesto
was away all day, selling his cargo and making ready
for his next trip to the mines. Tía Maria and the girls
worked in the kitchen or washed clothes. Chico even
went with them one morning to the river, where they
pounded the laundry on large flat stones. When the
girls of the other washwomen laughed to see a big boy
with the women, he left quickly.
Today Chico was lonesome and sad.
“Hola, Chico,” the policeman at the corner said in
greeting. “Qué pasa—what is the matter?”
“Nothing,” answered Chico.
“How do you like our city after those lonesome,
cold mountains?” he asked, just to make conversation.
Cholito, the policeman, was bored with the quiet of
the weekday morning. And hungry, too. It was almost
time for Juan to take his place while he had his second
breakfast. A cup of coffee and a roll of bread at dawn
THE DISCOVERY 157
was hardly enough to keep a man going all morning.

“It is nice,” Chico answered politely.
Then, as Cholito’s question turned his thoughts to
the mountains, the words came. Like a stream that
had been dammed for a long time and then burst
through, Chico’s words flowed out in a torrent.
“The mountains are not so cold, Cholito,” he said
sternly. “And it is not lonesome. Why, every day there
is something different to do. And there is plenty of
room to run; it is not crowded as it is here. When
the mist comes down in the afternoon, we sit in our
little house, snug and warm by the fire, and Old Man
tells me stories. And there is Chan, my pet bear. I can
always play with him, or I can weave hats, or hunt for
birds’ nests.
“And do you know, there are big Inca ruins up
there?” he continued. “I found one, and someday I am
going to search for treasure. Old Man says there is
surely some there.”
Cholito was so surprised by this rush of words
that he stopped in the middle of a yawn. He looked
curiously at the boy’s face. A moment ago it had been
dull and lifeless, but now the dark eyes were sparkling.
Caramba! The boy must really like the mountains,
the policeman thought. It was hard to believe that
anyone could really like the Paramos. Ah, well, there
was no understanding people.
“Why do you not get back to the mountains then, if

you like it so much?” he asked.
All the sparkle went out of the boy’s face.
“That I cannot do, señor, for I have come to find—”
Chico caught himself. He could not explain that he was
an orphan and that he had no tierra of his own to go to.
From down the street came a shout. Chico glanced
up quickly.
“Chico—Chico, venga, Chico.”
Pedro was hurrying down the street, his cheeks
puffing in and out as he ran.
“What is it? What has happened, Pedro?” Chico
called and ran toward his friend. Had something
happened to Don Ernesto or Tía Maria?
Pedro stumbled to a halt and sat down on the edge
of the curb, wiping his face with his sleeve.
“Caramba! Chico,” he exclaimed between gasps, “I
have run all over town searching for you. When the
message came to the school, I ran home, but Mamacita
had not seen you since morning. Then I went—”
“The message? What message, Pedro?” Chico inter-
rupted. “What are you talking about?”
“Did I not tell you? The padre has come home, and
he wants to see you at once.”
Chico was already running toward the cathedral,
and before Pedro could say more, he had disappeared
through the big doors.
THE DISCOVERY 159
Inside the church, Chico took off his hat and

walked slowly. He peered toward the altar through the
dim half-light. There was no one there. Then, on one
side of the altar, a small door opened. The padre looked
out, saw the boy, and beckoned to him.
Chico followed the slight, black-clothed old priest
into a tiny room. His heart beat so hard that he felt
sure its muffled thud could be heard all over the
cathedral. The time had come for which he had waited
so long, but now that it was here, Chico was fright-
ened. Perhaps it would be better not to know.
“My son, I am sorry to have been away so long. It
was necessary for me to go to Tambo for a few days,”
the priest said, “but I have not forgotten you. I have
done what I said I would.” The padre smiled at the boy.
Chico tried to answer the smile, but his lips
quivered. What had the padre found out? Did he
know who he was? Where he came from? Who his
parents were?
“With your little Prayer Book by me, I searched
the records of the church. I knew that you must be
about ten years old, and I looked in the records of ten
years ago.” He paused and looked again at the boy,
then reached out to take the small hand which hung
so limply at Chico’s side. “And now I know who your
mother was, and your father, too.”
Chico caught in his breath and let it out in a great
sigh. He was to know who he was.

“Who, Padrecito?” he whispered, his brown eyes
hidden by lowered lids.
“Your mother was a girl of twenty, named Josefina
Rodriguez. On April the first, eleven years ago, I
married her in this very church to your father, Carlos
Jimenez. That is why I knew your face. I knew your
mother, for she came often to the church, and you
look like her.”
A great buzzing came into Chico’s ears. A mist
floated before his eyes as he heard these words. The
rest that the padre said came to him faintly.
“I found, too, your birth record and when you were
baptized into the church. So, your name, Chico,” the
boy turned to look the padre full in the face as he
waited to hear, for the first time in his life, his birth
name. “Your name is Gregorio Aniseto Jimenez y
Rodriguez.” The kindly padre laughed cheerfully to
break the spell of Chico’s seriousness. “That is quite a
name for a young boy, is it not, Gregorio?”
Poor Chico could only stare. Was this possible? Was
it true?
“But, Padre, are you sure? Perhaps that was some
other boy, not I,” he asked piteously.
“My son, I am positive,” answered the padre,
standing up and taking a few steps up and down on
the stone pavement of the little room. “Not only is
THE DISCOVERY 161
the record there, and the signature of your mother the

same as in the little book, but when I passed through
Cañar, I made inquiries. Eight years ago, Josefina and
Carlos lived near the town on a little farm. They are
well remembered, for they were a good, hard-working
couple, and your mother, Josefina, was famed all over
the countryside for the fine hats she wove. You see,
that is why you can weave so well. The good neighbors
even remember you as a little baby of two years. Then
Josefina and Carlos went away, some think to Loja
in the south, to be with your father’s family, and they
never came back, nor have they been heard of since.”
The padre put an arm across the boy’s trembling
shoulders.
“I have worked it out, and I believe that your
parents were returning to their farm from Loja. For
some reason, which we shall never know, they took
that high mountain trail and were lost in the mist.
You, my son, were preserved by God to grow to
manhood. You have a fine heritage, my boy. You must
work hard to be a credit to it.”
For a long time, the padre went on talking to Chico.
Dimly, every now and then, Chico understood the
words. There was a mention of the little house and
farm, near Cañar, that had belonged to his father. The
padre spoke of distant relatives in Loja. One question
only was not answered, and Chico was afraid to ask it.
“But, Padre, where is the home—the tierra—of my

mother? Is it that farm in Cañar?”
Somehow, a strange feeling lingered in Chico’s
mind that still his past had not been solved. There
was a vague feeling of longing in his heart. He felt no
kinship with this settled land of Cañar and Cuenca.
There was no answering call in his heart—as there was
on the Paramos. Where was his true home?
“My son, neither your father nor your mother came
from Cañar. Even Loja has known your father’s people
for but fifty years, and there is nothing known of
where your mother came from. That is the only thing
I could not find out. There is one neighbor—an old
woman—near your farm to whom your mother talked.
She said that Josefina spoke of her next of kin—
your grandfather—as an old man who lived in the
mountains, some say, while some say on the coast. But
it was far away. The old woman remembered it was
strange, for never did your mother mention his name,
though she talked about him often. She said your
mother told her that he had a red mark, like a melon,
on his back.”
The padre’s voice droned on in the quiet room.
Chico’s young mind tried to sort out all the new
things he had heard. It was all very bewildering.
Then, from overhead, came the ringing of the
cathedral bells. The priest stood up.
THE DISCOVERY 163
“I must go now, Chico, but return and we shall talk

again.”
Chico was roused from his trance by the clamor of
the bells. Without a word, he knelt on the hard stone
floor and pressed the padre’s thin old hand against his
lips.
“Mil gracias,” he murmured.
As if in a dream, Chico walked from the church. His
brain whirled. Nothing seemed clear. He could hardly
remember all the things that the padre had told him.
In front of the cathedral, he stopped and looked
around. Everything was the same as when he had left
it—was it an hour or a year ago? The policeman, only
now it was Juan instead of Cholito, still leaned against
the pillar. The bright flowers of the plaza moved gently
in the breeze. Two fleecy white clouds, like fluffs of
cotton against the deep blue sky, drifted overhead.
All was the same. Only he, Chico, had changed.
Slowly, the boy lifted up his downcast head and
held it high. He stood straight and proudly threw
back his shoulders. Yes, he had changed. He had gone
into the cathedral as just Chico and had come out as
Gregorio Aniseto Jimenez y Rodriguez!
Seventeen
CHICO DECIDES
“. . . and then the padre told me that he, himself, had

known my own mother. He married her to my father,
Carlos, in that very cathedral.”
Chico’s brown eyes shone softly with the wonder
of it. Now that he had had time to collect himself,
it seemed no less than a miracle that he actually
knew who he was. To think that he had talked with
someone who had known his mother!
Chico was seated on one of the black, cane-
bottomed chairs in the little sala. Don Ernesto and
Tía Maria, who still wore the long apron in which she
had rushed out of the kitchen, sat opposite him on
the other side of the round table. Pedro and his sisters
leaned over the back of their mother’s chair. They all
listened breathlessly to Chico’s tale.
“What else did the padre say?” prompted Don
CHICO DECIDES 165
Ernesto when Chico paused and seemed to lose

himself in dreams.
“Let me think. Oh, yes, he said that I owned a little
farm outside of Cañar. That is, I do when I am grown
up,” he finished thoughtfully.
Pedro and the other children stared respectfully
at the young boy. He was only ten years old, and he
owned a real farm with a house on it!
Don Ernesto frowned. It was impossible to get
the boy to remember what he had been told. He,
himself, would have to talk to the padre. After all, he
was responsible for the boy in place of Don Fernando.
Someone would have to make plans for him.
“Chico,” Tía Maria spoke softly, dabbing at her eyes
with a corner of the apron. The story was so sad—even
though it was happy, too—that she could not help
crying.
“Sí, Doña Maria?” Chico looked toward the tiny
woman.
“Chico, did the padre not say if you had some
relatives? Are there none left?”
Chico frowned as he thought.
“I think, señora, I think he said there were some in
Loja, some distant relatives of my father.”
“But what about those of your mother, Chico?”
broke in Don Ernesto. “Surely there must be
someone.”
“I did not ask very much, señor,” Chico looked

ashamed. “I was so excited,” he explained.
“But—”
“Oh, yes. I remember now. Pardon me, Don
Ernesto, for interrupting,” he added. “I remember the
padre said something about my mother’s father—my
grandfather, I suppose, would it not be?” Chico was
not used to thinking that he had a family.
“He said that my grandfather lived somewhere in
the mountains, he thought. No one knew his name,
though. I suppose it would be impossible to find him,
would it not?” he asked wistfully.
“Sí, sí, that it would,” answered Don Ernesto. “You
say he lives in the mountains?” He looked more and
more thoughtful. “What was your mother’s name
again, Chico?”
“Josefina Rodriguez, before she married, Don
Ernesto.” Chico could not help but glance at the other
children proudly. How good it was to be able to speak
his mother’s name!
“Rodriguez—Rodriguez. No. No. I thought I knew
the mountains as well as any man, but I know no one
by that name.”
“Did the padre know nothing more about this
grandfather?” asked Tía Maria.
“I do not think—yes, yes, he said that my mother
had spoken often of him to her neighbors. She said
CHICO DECIDES 167
that there was one mark by which he could be told. It

was a red birthmark shaped like a melon, right in the
middle of his back. I remember now because the padre
thought it was strange that my mamita should never
mention his name, but should tell about the mark. It is
strange, is it not, Don Ernesto?”
“It is, my boy, and I am afraid the mark will be no
help to us. We can hardly wander over the mountains
and ask every old man to take off his shirt, can we?”
Don Ernesto laughed heartily at his own joke.
The laughter made everyone feel better. The spell of
sadness that had hung over them was broken. After
all, this was a day to be happy. It was true that poor
Chico was still an orphan, but he had a name and his
own bit of earth.
Tía Maria stood up and shook out her apron.
“Come, Juana and Olivia. We must make an espe-
cially nice dinner tonight. It is in honor of our little
friend, Gregorio—no, that is too long—of Goyo.” The
little woman smiled gaily at the boy and bustled out of
the room, shooing her children before her.
Don Ernesto pulled his chair up a bit and leaned
toward the boy Chico, or Goyo, as we must now call
him.
“Goyo, there are things we must decide now,” he
said seriously. “This discovery has changed many
things. We must make plans.”
Goyo waited.
“First, what will you do now? You have your land.
No doubt, with the padre’s help we could get it for
you. Do you want to go to Loja to see your father’s
people? It is a long journey, and it may be some time
before a mule train goes that way, but you are welcome
to stay here until that time. Or do you want to live
here and go to school and weave your hats? You still
have a great deal of money, and now that you need not
search for your family, it should last a long time. What
do you want to do?”
Chico, who was now Goyo, leaned his chin on
the palm of his hand and stared at the floor. The day
had been so exciting that he had not thought of the
future. Now he must decide. Don Ernesto was kind,
but somehow, none of the things he spoke of seemed
just right. A sort of hard lump seemed to slip into his
throat and choke him.
Don Ernesto watched the boy and then spoke again.
“I ask now, Goyo, because in two days I leave on
another journey. I would like to see you settled, so that
I may tell Viejito that you are well and happy. If—”
At the mention of Viejito, the boy’s eyes filled with
tears. Before he knew it, he had thrown himself on
Don Ernesto and lay there sobbing as if his heart
would break. Don Ernesto patted him awkwardly and
smoothed the brown hair.
CHICO DECIDES 169
“What is it, Chico?” In his distress Don Ernesto

forgot the new name. “What is the matter? Tell me.
Do not be afraid.”
Goyo lifted his face with the damp flood of tears
covering it and burst out, “Oh, Don Ernesto, take me
with you. Take me back to the Paramos and Grandfa-
ther and Chan—and everything,” he sobbed. “I want
to go with you. Please, please. I have been thinking of
it for many days, and that is where I want to go, back
to the Paramos. I want to live with Old Man forever.”
“But, Goyo,” Don Ernesto lifted the boy up and
looked at him in surprise, “are you crying for that? Of
course, you may go. If that is what you want, I shall be
glad to take you back.”
Goyo looked at him unbelievingly. Then he began
to smile.
“Really, Don Ernesto? Really?” he asked.
The man nodded.
“Oh—oh—oh! I am going back to the Paramos. I
am going back to Grandfather.” Goyo stood up and
danced about the room, chanting it over and over
again. “I am going back.”
Don Ernesto leaned back in his chair and smiled.
“Well, I never thought it would take so little to
make you happy,” he said. “But what about your farm
and your hat weaving? Remember, the buyer said he
would pay you fifty sucres for each one.”
“I can make hats up there, just as I did before. And

the farm—” Chico paused to think, “I shall talk to
Viejito. Perhaps he will come down and live there with
me during the rainy season when the potato crop is
over. We could make hats together and run the farm,
and then we could go back to the mountains in the
dry season. When we live in Cañar, I could go to
school, too, if you think I must,” he finished.
Don Ernesto snorted.
“I would not count on the farm part,” he said. “To
get Don Fernando to leave the Paramos would be like
taking the stubbornness out of one of my mules. It
would be just as impossible. Besides, he would not like
to live on someone else’s land. He is very independent,
you know.”
“Oh, I shall persuade him,” Goyo murmured
confidently.
“Well, then, everything is settled. We shall leave at
daylight, two days from now.”
Goyo stood lost in thought and hardly heard Don
Ernesto.
“Don Ernesto, how much money have I left?” he
asked.
“About thirty-five sucres, I suppose. Shall I count it?”
“No, no. But—but—but—how much does a sheep
cost?” he asked.
A smile twisted the man’s lips as he watched the boy.
CHICO DECIDES 171
“About five sucres, I should say, perhaps less,” he

answered.
Goyo started toward the door.
“Here, where are you going?” called Don Ernesto.
“I am going to buy six sheep to take to Grandfa-
ther for a present,” Goyo answered and disappeared
through the door.
“A fine help you will be to me with the mules if
you are going to drive six loco sheep up the mountain,”
Don Ernesto reflected.
Eighteen
RETURN TO THE PARAMOS
The first thing Goyo heard on his return was the

crowing of old Inca in the distance. He turned to look
back at Don Ernesto to see if he, too, had heard. The
arriero nodded and smiled. Goyo skipped a step. He
could almost see the old rooster flapping his wings
and strutting as if he owned the Paramos.
It had been a long, hard trip. They had plodded up
the steep mountains for four days, often slipping and
falling in the thick mud. Now they were almost there.
For some time, Goyo had seen the towering peaks
that guarded their own little part of the high Paramos.
He had recognized their jagged outline against the
deep blue sky. He had seen the giant condor circling
lazily overhead, just as it always did in the late
afternoon. Now came the cock-a-doodle-doo of old
Inca. Yes, he was almost home.
RETURN TO THE PARAMOS 173
Goyo ran on ahead of the mule team, then stopped

to shout impatiently, “Anda—get on, you sheep. Do
not stop now. We are almost there.”
But sheep are not mules to be driven where one
wills. Goyo’s six long-haired animals had decided that
this was a good time to eat. As if by a signal, they all
left the trail and scattered along the hillside to graze.
It had been this way during the whole journey.
They had caused Goyo nothing but trouble on the
steep, muddy trail. Sometimes they ran far ahead and
scattered so that he had to spend an hour running up
and down the mountainside after them. Or else they
stopped completely and lay down. More than once,
Goyo had been tempted to leave them behind. Then
he would think of Grandfather’s face when he saw
them, and, panting wearily, would start them on their
way once more. Well, they were almost up the hill
now, and then the locos could run all over the Paramos,
for all he cared.
Goyo, who felt like Chico, shifted his heavy saddle-
bags to the other shoulder. Besides the sheep, he had
bought straw enough for four hats—and not coarse
straw, either, but the finest there was. And Tía Maria
had sewn the precious measuring straws into his
old trousers which he now wore. There would be no
mistake about the size of the next hat. There were
parcels of tobacco and rice and brown sugar, besides,
and a new pipe for Viejito. Goyo had even bought

some fresh meat, but before the first day had passed,
he had had to throw it away.
As they came nearer and nearer the end of the trail,
Goyo dropped back alongside of Don Ernesto and
said excitedly, “Don Ernesto, let us fool Old Man at
first. Let us not tell him right away that I found out
who I am.”
The man nodded and smiled.
“Well, then, I had better not call you Goyo,” he said.
“All right, call me Chico, and then Viejito will not
know,” Goyo agreed.
With that, Goyo was away. Running as fast as he
could, he came to the top of the hill and disappeared
over the crest. Don Ernesto plodded after him, driving
the mules and the sheep up the path.
Now Goyo could see the house. It was just the
same. The gray stone walls melted into the gray earth,
and the long thatch hung down just as shaggily as
ever. A bit of white smoke plumed upward and melted
into the clear, cold air.
Goyo ran with all his might, his bundles pounding
against his shoulders. Now, he ran down the little
hollow; now, he crossed the stream; now—. Goyo
stopped as he saw a little, gray-brown shape waddle
through the doorway. The creature looked about,
sniffing the air, then sat down on its haunches and
scratched behind one ear.

“Chan!”
Goyo dropped the saddlebags and ran forward. The
little bear looked at him questioningly.
“Don’t you know me, Chan?”
The little bear took a few steps forward uncertainly.
Then he recognized his master and with a joyful yelp
rushed up to him and rolled frantically at his feet.
Goyo dropped to his knees and rubbed one cheek
on Chan’s soft fur. The bear squirmed in delight.
“What is it, Chan?” came a voice.
Goyo looked up. There, in the door of the little
house, stood Grandfather, rubbing his eyes as though
he had been awakened from his nap by the fire.
“Viejito, it is I. I am back,” Goyo called as he ran to
him.
The old man stretched out a gnarled hand and
touched the boy’s hair as though he could not believe
it was he. Then he threw both arms about him and
held him close.
“Chico, Chico, is it really you? Are you truly home?”
he murmured over and over again.
Goyo felt the tears start to his eyes.
With his arm still around the boy, Viejito led him
into the house. It was all just the same. Goyo sighed
happily. There were the two beds, the chest, and the
smoke-blackened corner where the fire flickered.
Goyo ran with all his might, his bundles pounding against
his shoulders.
“Don Ernesto has come, too,” Goyo explained.
There was a sharp bark from Chan, and the old
man walked to the door. Suddenly, he began to wave
his arms.
“Caramba! What are those animals doing here?” he

shouted excitedly. Goyo peered under his arm and saw
the six sheep scattering over the Paramos.
“They are for you, Old Man,” Goyo laughed.
“You always said you wanted some sheep, and I have
brought them for you.”
“For me? All of those?” The old man stared. Six
sheep! He was a rich man!
Then Don Ernesto arrived, and there was much
stamping of the mules’ hooves and loud greetings
between the two men. Chan ran around, wildly
excited, and even old Inca crowed again.
Inside the house, the three sat close by the fire to
sip their hot coffee. Goyo told how he had sold his
hat. Viejito laughed heartily. Then the boy took out his
presents and the food. He even showed Viejito his new
black suit and shoes. When Goyo told how everyone
had said his hat was a fine one, the old man’s eyes
shone proudly.
Then all at once, Goyo was silent. The three sat
quietly, staring into the flames. Each knew that the
time had come for more important talk. Goyo waited
for the old man’s questions. He was so full of the story
he could hardly hold it back. But instead of smiling
happily, he tried to look sad.
“Well, Chico, what else happened?” the old man
asked gently.
“What else? Why, there was a fiesta and . . .”

“No, no—I mean, have you forgotten why you went
to Cuenca? Did you find nothing? Is that why you
have returned?”
Goyo could hold it back no longer, even to fool the
old man.
“Viejito,” he burst out, “Old Man, I have a name!”
“Truly?” The old man looked startled.
“Sí. I learned it from the padre. He knew my
mother and my father, too. My name is Gregorio
Aniseto Jimenez y Rodriguez.”
Old Man gave a start.
“Rodriguez, then, was your mother’s name. Strange!
Strange! That was my daughter’s mother’s name, too.
But then it is a common one.”
Goyo went on to tell of the farm and the house. The
old man stared into the fire.
“And there are no relatives left?” he asked, at last.
Don Ernesto answered.
“There are some relatives of the boy’s father in Loja,
the padre told me. But they are not close ones, from
what he said. Goyo must go there someday to see
them.”
“And on the mother’s side?”
“There is only one old man,” Goyo said. “And we do
not even know his name. But he lives somewhere in
the mountains, they think. That is funny,” he stopped
and looked at the old man. “I never thought of it

before, but he must live just as you do. The only thing
we know about him is that he has a birthmark—red
and shaped like a melon—on his back. He would be
my grandfather,” he added wistfully.
Goyo hardly noticed when the old man stood up
and threw off his poncho, as though he were hot.
“And—and—what was your mother’s name, my
boy?” the old man asked in a trembling voice. His
clumsy hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.
“Did I not say? Rodriguez—Josefina Rodriguez,” he
answered.
Goyo looked up. The old man had taken off his
shirt, and, without a word, he turned to show his back.
Goyo stared. There, on the old man’s back, was a mark
shaped like a melon, red as fire.
Goyo could not believe his eyes.
“Then—then—you are—?”
Don Ernesto stood up and walked away, wiping at
his eyes.
“I am that old man. Josefina was my only child. She
left me long ago to make Panama hats in Cuenca.
And you, Goyo, are truly my own grandson.”
Even a boy as big as Goyo has a right to cry over
such a discovery. He had found his grandfather, his
mother’s father, and he was the old man whom he
loved so much.
Goyo sat at Grandfather’s feet, his hand on the old

man’s knee. Don Ernesto returned to the circle, and
the talk went on and on. Goyo told how he hoped to
live on the farm—which was now partly Grandfa-
ther’s—and make hats and go to school for part of the
year. Grandfather nodded contentedly. What Goyo
wanted to do, he would do.
It was late when they stopped talking. Goyo sat
thoughtfully for a few moments and then, without a
word, got up and walked to the door.
Outside it was cold and dark. The Paramos mist
had fallen and clothed the moors in its white covering.
But no longer did Goyo fear it.
He took a few steps farther from the house. The
mist was all about him now.
Goyo bent down and touched the cold, hard earth.
Here was his land. When he had found Grandfather,
he had found his tierra. No longer would he wander,
searching for his home. No matter how far he might
go in his life, he would always return for strength to
this land of the Paramos.
When Goyo straightened up, he held a little of the
soil clenched in his hand. He sighed. He was content,
at last. Goyo, whose name had been Chico, had found
his good earth.
CHRISTINE VON HAGEN
High in the rugged Andes of Ecuador, ten-year-old Chico

works hard and lives happily with his grandfather and his
pet bear, Chan. By firelight, Grandfather tells Chico
amazing stories about the Inca and the other ancient people
who once inhabited their land. Chico has always felt a
close connection to the mountains, his tierra—that is, until
he discovers he is an orphan, found out on the moors, and
that his grandfather is merely a kind stranger who took
Chico in as a baby. Shocked and confused, Chico
determines to travel to the city, leaving behind his beloved
mountains, to track down his lost family and discover who
he truly is.
SKU 384.4 For use with the Level 5 Language Arts course

Chico of The Andes 1.2

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Chico of The Andes 1.2

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CHRISTINE VON HAGEN

High in the rugged Andes of Ecuador, ten-year-old Chico

ai—oh (often spelled “ay”)

alpargatas—espadrilles (a sandal usually made of

canvas or cotton, with a rope sole)

aquí estamos—here we are

arriero—muleteer; a person who drives mules

buenos días—good morning

caramba—gosh; boy; whoa

Casa Americana—American House

cuidado—watch out; be careful

empanadas—individual sweet or savory filled pastries

gracias—thanks; thank you

Jesu Cristo—Jesus Christ

joven—young; young person

llapingachos—fried patties made with mashed potatoes

and annatto (made from the seed of the achiote)

loco—crazy in a foolish or wild sense

mil gracias—many thanks

muchas gracias—thank you very much

muy bien—very good

paja toquilla—straw from the toquilla palm

peluquería—barbershop or hair salon

perdón—pardon me; forgive me

poncho—a blanket with a slit in the middle so that

it can be slipped over the head and worn as a

qué linda—how beautiful; how lovely

qué quieres—what do you want

sí, pues—well, of course

sus mercedes—your graces; my good men

tambo—a place to provide food and shelter

vaya con Dios—go with God

viejito—old person; old friend

“Old Man! Old Man, here he comes! He is here!” a

striking stone. The old man smiled, and his face

coming at all, Don Ernesto.”

The mud came to here.” He measured half up his leg.

lived high in the Andes, far from any town. He always

toward the house. He paused to pick up the half-

But Chan paid no attention. Keeping out of reach

“Qué linda!” the boy exclaimed.

Chan looked unhappy, but when he saw that Chico

Then he stopped and slapped his forehead with one

Then, as he stood there, Chico heard his own name.

The voices rose and fell. Grandfather’s was like the

moment he swayed. He caught hold of the hut and

“I heard what you and Don Ernesto said, Grandfa-

Old Grandfather knew how the boy felt. He

“First of all, Chico,” he said, “you must not be so sad

and cold. I was driving my mules up the trail from the

eight years past. “And this boy became frightened and

Ernesto threw up his big hands at the remembrance,

the burning wood in the fire snapped and shot sparks

must have been lost in the mountains, in the terrible

man to tell him it was true, that there was someplace

Chico opened the door and stepped outside. He

SEARCH THROUGH THE PAST

Chico’s bare feet slapped the worn earth of the

whistles, for not even Chico’s sorrow could keep the

the boy could answer, he had said, “Very well, then, my

“Muy bien, Chico,” he had said, his breath blowing

because he was worried. The man was afraid to have

seemed longer than he had thought, and he was alone