It is Sunday morning in Mexico, and the bells of the great cathedral ring out over the teeming life of the Zócalo, over the flat, irregular rooftops, over the colonial palaces, and through all the vast and interminable ganglia of the ancient city.

“Listen!” says my old friend Rubén, “The bells are the voice of Mexico. Even though you will go away, you will never forget them. Their music will always be in your soul.”

Rubén is a Zapotec Indian boy from the state of Oaxaca, the son of a poor tailor, who is studying medicine at the National University. When he has completed his courses, he will return to his native tierra to work among his people. Deeply imbued with the culture of his country, he is proud of his heritage and his blood.