AYOTLA.
26th. September. We were off at half-past three, by the moonlight of a cold and frosty morning, and the first streak of day found our troop winding high up the spur of hills that juts out from the sides of Popocatepetl, which was in full view, with the clouds rolling off from its lofty head as the sun rose.
Behind us, for near twenty leagues, the tierra caliente extended distinctly until the view was bounded by a bold and craggy sierra. We wound upward through the hill farms, hanging against the sides of the mountains, and among the pine forests, through whose branches a cold autumn wind was whistling. The road was lined with crosses, many of them recently erected, and hung with garlands and flowers.—It is a dangerous pass and infested by hordes of robbers, who attack the travellers either passing from Cuautla to the Valley of Mexico or returning with the proceeds of their sales.
Beyond the village of Hoochietipec we lost sight both of the plain of Cuautla and the tierra caliente, and soon afterward the Valley of Mexico appeared to the west.
At Tenango we stopped to breakfast and to wait for Pedro, who had been missing for the last two hours, having lingered behind with a lame horse.
Our inn was a small rat hole of a meson for muleteers, with a corral of a couple of acres; but the whole establishment bore the sounding name of the "Purisima Sangre de Christo!"
We found, to our sorrow, that we were no longer in the land of rich haciendas and hospitable administradors. The old song of "no hai!" had recommenced. Tortillas, chilé, mollé, pan, pulqué, agua?—"No hai!" With a little coaxing, however, we got one of the women of the house to seek out the remnant of corn from their breakfast, which was soon ground into tortillas. As we were beginning to devour them, Don Juan espied an Indian bearing a couple of earthen jugs of milk, with one of which and our leathery cakes, we managed to stay our stomachs till dinner. Pedro had not yet come up with us, and as it was decided to wait for him, I laid down on a rock at the door of the meson and slept soundly.
After an hour's delay, during which the servant did not appear, and presuming that he might have passed by some other road (as he was well acquainted with this part of the country,) we again mounted, and descending by a series of inclined planes, speedily reached the level of the vale of Mexico.
This valley is exceedingly different from the tierra caliente. Although the temperature is milder, yet everything is dry, parched, withered and volcanic. The hill-sides and mountains are stripped of their forests—the
