Marcelino and the Curse of the Gold Frog

By Daniel Chavez Sr.

Marcelino was born in a remote Mexican village in the late 1800s. Life was tolerable until his loving mother’s death, when his conniving father gave him to an uncle. The uncle took him to his farm in Texas, where his wife and sons refused to accept Marcelino into the family, and they torturously worked him like a beast of burden.

Running away from his miserable existence, he found freedom glorious, but it did not ease his constant nightmares. Little did he know that those vile accomplices of the night had a more sinister plan. Ruination would soon devour his dreams and damnation would rule his entry into adulthood.

Marcelino’s wife, Maria, never knew her father; tequila and a fast gun took his worthless life before she was born. Although his death allowed her to happily enjoy her childhood, her adult life included a first husband who put an end to her contentment. What he did to Maria scarred her mentally and physically, and forever changed her life. Marcelino inherited the consequences of those scars.

Marcelino and Maria had married soon after they met; but then WWI intervened. To provide for his family, Marcelino returned to the farm in Texas. He and Maria were trapped, mistreated, and ultimately forced to leave in search of work. Years of crisscrossing Central Texas yielded only extreme poverty, racism, and incomprehensible hardships.

Marcelino eventually found work in San Marcos, and his steady employment greatly improved their lives. What he failed to notice was a hellish nightmare taking shape as Maria developed telekinesis. The women of the town suspected her of being a sorceress, and an incident at church confirmed their suspicions. Angered, they retaliated by hiring a Comanche witch to “fix” Maria. A crowded churchyard provided the setting for a confrontation that triggered Maria’s madness. Her escalating violent behavior soon singled out her newborn son. What she planned for him, for all her children, was genuine insanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Sep 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781936587391

Daniel Chavez Sr.

Daniel “Danny” Chavez, Sr. was born in San Antonio, Texas, the third-oldest of thirteen children. He didn’t complete high school and says he never missed having a formal education. It’s not that he’s opposed to higher education, quite the contrary, as he adamantly stresses the need to learn all you can, while you can. Looking back through bifocals at thirty-five years in heavy and dangerous construction, he now realizes it was an excellent education. “If you’re not going to finish high school, you certainly need to learn about life.” He figured the best way to do that was to risk his own life, which he did many times, in performing dangerous jobs. “Brushing up against the grim reaper builds strong character and an appreciation for being above ground instead of six-feet under it.” Around 1980, Danny quit traipsing around the country and settled in Nashville, Tennessee. He had learned to play the guitar and write and arrange original songs; so it seemed only natural to dabble in Country Music. After building a home recording studio, he began making music. Chavez admits he didn’t take music as seriously as he should have. Having to produce new material and working upwards of ninety hours a week at a car manufacturing plant eventually took its toll on his nerves. He did, however, love his time in Nashville, the many friends he made, and being surrounded by countless great singers and musicians. Currently, his sister plays many of his songs in an online music room, and she reports that folks enjoy hearing them. Danny says he finds it rather comical that folks enjoy hearing his original music that’s old enough to vote. In 1994, Danny relocated back to Kansas to help his older brother who was suffering with a terminal illness. He soon learned steady work was difficult to find, and going back on the road was no longer an option. He had spent years as a welder/pipefitter foreman, a construction boss installing grain handling machinery, and as a maintenance technician. No longer able to do physical labor meant it was time to put his brain to work. He began writing poetry, screenplays, took up photography, learned woodworking, did some leatherwork, then made bows and arrows. Bored, and with a burning desire for something more challenging, he was anxious to chart a new course. One day, one of his younger brothers who was a university student, asked if Danny had any ideas for a literary project he could work on. After providing a detailed outline for the project, his brother was so impressed, he recommended to Danny he should write the story. Hell, why not? Danny thought. The “why not” became apparent immediately after dabbing a pencil to his tongue. It took Danny a long time to learn how to stop his adjectives from agitating his nouns. Then came the battle of learning how to construct a legible paragraph. Eventually, mastering the craft of writing, his persistence finally paid off. Ten years later, “Marcelino and the Curse of the Gold Frog” joined his collection of completed works. Danny now resides in central Kansas.

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MARCELINO AND THE CURSE OF THE GOLD FROG

By

Daniel Chavez, Sr.

Published by

Brighton Publishing LLC

501 W. Ray Road, Suite 4

Chandler, AZ 85225

Copyright©2011

ISBN 13: 978-1-936587-39-1

Smashwords Edition

Cover Design by Tom Rodriquez

Author Photo by Kiley Chavez

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Chapter One

Children, now that you are all here, gather around me. At one time or another, each of you has asked me about the history of your ancestors, which is a very good thing. Because I am the only one with the best knowledge of them, I will share with you all I know about them. And I don’t think anyone’s ears are too young to hear all that happened the way I will tell it. But before I start, I will tell you that many good things and many bad things happened to them all. By knowing this important fact, you will see why I must tell the stories exactly as I heard them from those who were there or heard of them firsthand. If I do not tell the full truth, you will not know the character of this generation whose blood now flows through your veins. I mention this because, like with all stories, there is a moral to these. Unlike what you have at school, this will not be a question-and-answer session. What I mean is that after I have finished I will not ask any of you what the moral is—you should know on your own. If you do not know, then you did not listen well, and you did not give thought where you should have.

Where I can, I will say what these people said in their own words. Keep in mind, some of you are the third generation, and some are the fourth born here in America. Some of the people I will speak of were the first, and some were born in Mexico. And most of them spoke poor English because Spanish was their first language. They had to teach themselves the English language on their own so they could work to make money to live, and so they could become citizens of this country; my English I learned from reading many books, and it still may not be proper, but it is good enough to relay to you what your ancestors relayed to me.

I will begin by saying that years ago, I read an oral history that began with: I was born at an early age . . . I knew what the lady meant, but I still found it amusing. Thinking about that opening line now in relation to Marcelino, your great-great-grandfather, there is nothing amusing about the age he was born into. He was born at the wrong time, at the wrong place, and in the wrong country. Frankly speaking, everything was wrong. It’s almost like all these wrongs foretold the many crazy things the future held for him. On the other hand, if he hadn’t known so much grief and hardship for so long there wouldn’t be a story to tell, but there sure is. And I will begin at the beginning when he was born at an early age.

Marcelino Soldano took his first breath in 1890 in a village around Saltillo, Mexico. He was a Mexican-Indian boy with no Spanish mix running through his veins. As a young boy, he was tall for his age, very skinny, and had those facial features the early Spanish records described as ugly. But Marcelino wasn’t ugly; his life was ugly and had been since day one. In essence, he was just another unfortunate soul born into poverty and made to wallow in it.

Life was damn tough in the small village where he was born. What you made of yourself, you had to live with, because it was hard to stay there and harder yet to leave. At age five, Marcelino didn’t know about such things and wasn’t aware of much going on around him. The timid boy wasn’t destined to be a thinker, so pondering life and death and why things turn out the way they do wasn’t anything he cared about. But he was fated to learn really quickly about it all. Unbeknownst to him, a tragic event would soon alter his life, and it wouldn’t be for the better.

The tragedy occurred on a lazy summer day in 1895. A neighbor made the discovery after stopping by to visit Marcelino’s mother. Marcelino wasn’t home at the time; he was running around like little boys do, which spared him the horror of hearing the woman scream after opening the front door. Although what happened inside that shack filled little Marcelino with immeasurable grief, the severity of his loss had only begun to take shape. What remained would become agonizingly apparent in just a few short days.

On the morning of his mother’s burial, the villagers prepared for the wretched occasion by dressing in black, the color of death. Having to bury another one of theirs had created such a dispiriting atmosphere that everybody moved about slowly; ironic as it seems, even the animals were extra-quiet and still on this day.

This solemn setting added greater sorrow to those women who had whispered the deceased died of self-poisoning. If their rumors held any truth, that spineless way out of misery was unacceptable in the eyes of these Roman Catholics. Other women claimed the dead mother just lost the will to live and gave up, which was understandable, given her dire circumstances. The more devout in their faith weren’t as mean as the others. They said God had a chore in Heaven for the mother; that’s all there is to it—so stop the ugly talk! To be blunt about it, all the vile whispers and slanderous gossip was only mere speculation. The truth lay much closer to what the men declared—the wrong spouse died!

Señora Soldano did have a very poor husband, poor in every imaginable way. There’s just no other way to put it. Ramiro Soldano was not a dynamic pillar of this community, nor an inkling of one. Listing the man’s many faults would be very time consuming. So, to save time, I will rightly state that reasonable people looked upon Ramiro as a burden to everybody who should’ve been taken out and shot dead a long time ago. Once again, and as the men declared so boisterously—the wrong spouse died!

Of course, the women’s negative comments about the Soldano family were uttered in hushed tones. One could only hope that Señora Soldano’s wake and funeral would not be fouled by the innuendoes. Nonetheless, the talk did make the rounds in rapid fashion. It couldn’t be helped, because grave concern over Marcelino’s welfare buzzed in the air like a horde of angry hornets. This unresolved issue certainly kept the sordid comments speeding from hut to hut and back again. Naturally, with each passing, the remarks got juicer, and many leaned heavily toward the ridiculous side.

Much of the gossip being spread around paralleled a chat Juana and Luz had. They were preparing corn tortillas for the evening meal when their conversation turned to Marcelino. Working in the privacy of Juana’s ramada allowed them to speak freely, which neither woman ever shied away from, regardless of whether they spoke factually or not.

What will become of Marcelino now? Juana asked, while bearing down on the metate stone to crush the soft corn. I still cry for the helpless boy. The no-good father cannot care for him. He is worthless, like an old, worn-out bull.

I know, and it is so sad. I heard the little boy will be taken tomorrow to Saltillo.

Soldano will move there, Luz? No?

"No. He will give the boy to the padre. He will take the boy and try to make something of him."

I don’t believe it, Juana stated skeptically. That would be too easy for Ramiro. A mountain cannot separate the guilt that will fall on him someday like the boulders above our heads. Juana stopped work and flung the moist masa from her fingers. She took several steps out of the shade, and then pointed a chubby finger straight up to the rocky slope she’d lived under forever. See those big rocks? How they hang out so far above us?

Luz didn’t step out to look. She just nodded in agreement. I know they are there. They have always been there.

"I have never had fear of those boulders falling on me, not once. No, Luz—because I love God, and He would not let them fall on me and my family. You know why? Because I live good and make my children live good. But Ramiro, he will . . . he will . . . I don’t let that man come around here, never, never, never! He could make the rocks fall on us and crush us dead because of his many sins. No, the boy will not be at the mission. It would be too close, too. I don’t believe it will happen the way you say. Let me tell you what I heard, Juana exclaimed. After quick steps landed her back under the ramada, she warned, Do not repeat this, Luz."

"I would never, never repeat a secret. It is a secret? Yes?"

Yes.

Tell me what you heard.

Juanita Vegas, she told me she heard Ramiro will give the boy to the rebels to take to the army when they come here again to steal and rape us.

"No. No, no. How can he do that? How can he think it? The poor, poor baby. What can a little boy do in the army?"

Learn to cook and clean boots for the scoundrels—that’s what. Thank God Señora Soldano had only one child. Thank God for that, Luz.

"Sí, I agree. If there were girls, Soldano would make putas of them and whore them in Monterrey."

And drink all the money they made—every bit.

Yes, I agree. He would drink all the money, too.

* * *

The padre from Saltillo had been called out of town, so he couldn’t conduct the service at the cemetery. Before he left, he asked young Brother Cristóbol, from the mining town up north, to kindly convene in his stead. The brother gladly agreed to and looked forward to being of service.

The morning of the burial, Brother Cristóbol rose early, with the fire of God burning in him. He quickly dressed and started out for the village on his cantankerous burro, Barraco. On this trip, the brother wouldn’t get to enjoy the thousands of acres of wonderful scenery lining both sides of the trail. He was too busy searching for beautiful words and delicate phrases to make the commitment as befitting as possible. To be more precise, he was frantic. His complaining was aloud and in great earnest because, while scurrying to get on the road, he had forgotten to grab his Bible. It was entirely too far back to the little church to fetch the Good Book, so now he was in a real fix and knew it. Knocking hard at the backdoor of his memory didn’t help the situation, either. Pretty words and acceptable phrases still refused to step forward. This mounting dilemma only succeeded in reminding him of his inexperience in matters of grave concern. Moreover, he got extremely fidgety. He was en route to his first sad occasion, and what a roaring start he was off to.

This predicament put a massive dent in his insistence for order in all matters. Worse yet, he stuttered. The young man always stuttered and hated how it kept him silent when he didn’t want to be. Over the years, he came to realize excitement was the culprit that caused his choppy speech. Bottom line: if he got excited he stuttered, plain and simple. Thus he worked very hard to overcome the habit by staying calm. Right now that type of prevention was out the window due to a royal case of hypertension that had him stuttering worse than ever.

An acceptable eulogy remained elusive until the reason why became apparent. Brother Cristóbol didn’t know enough about the dead soul he was called on to serve—that’s why he struggled so! Accepting this duty on such short notice left him without personal knowledge of the deceased. Hell, he didn’t even know if it was a man or a woman, boy or girl. A need for haste instantly struck him. If he hurried onward, he could get from the locals the pertinent information he needed so badly.

Several sharp taps to a skinny rump weren’t well received. In fact, the animal considered the onslaught rude and totally disrespectful. What are you doing? Barraco thought. You’re not supposed to hit me. I’m a church burro! You don’t swat a four-legged servant of God. What’s wrong with you?

The tap-tap-taps kept coming. The little burro saw there wasn’t time to ponder this ill treatment. So, to be ornery, the little creature broke into a rough canter that made Brother Cristóbol’s recital sound like he was practicing for a gargling contest. Barraco found it all rather amusing and merrily cantered on. Nevertheless, the new pace pleased the brother to where he laid off the stick a little.

The hurried pace did save precious time, but not enough. Way down below, he caught a glimpse of the funeral procession gathering in the village. Instant shame filled Brother Cristóbol. He felt so ravaged and utterly useless that he sank to a lowly depth he’d never known before. How can this be? How can this be!

The brother was high enough on the ridge to see the villagers start the procession without him. God take pity upon your wayward servant, he prayed aloud. Several more whacks with the plump stick brought good results. Several minutes later, he felt jarred to death with every vertebra in his spine crushed flat. At least he was off the mountain trail now.

In the village, Brother Cristóbol was fortunate enough to step into the company of Juana’s and Luz’s family. They were taking their places at the back of the procession and were proud to welcome the man in black. As the procession made its way, an old, crippled gentleman reached out and took the reins from the holy man. The elder wouldn’t make the trek to the cemetery because of bad health, yet he was kind enough to tend to Barraco for the brother. The gentleman felt the pertinent business at hand could be dealt with more efficiently without the added distraction of leading the burro. Plus, and most importantly, the old man thought it to be a dishonorable thing for a burro to be among the cluster of mourners.

The brother graciously thanked the old gentleman and turned back to face Juana. Her next comment to him embarrassed Luz. She thought it was rather uncouth of Juana to state that he arrived just in time. And Juana didn’t stop there; she made another raw remark by saying, We gave you up as a lost cause. That made Luz cringe in shame and swallow hard. The brother wasn’t bothered by her crudeness, though. After apologizing again for being late, he eagerly turned the conversation to the deceased. He asked, Señora Juana, is it a man or a woman?

Who?

The dead one, of course.

Oh, I see now. She was a lady, always a good lady.

Did she have a husband?

Only a small part of one, is all.

Did the lady have children?

One, a fine, fine boy, Juana proudly stated.

And was the lady a Catholic?

Of course, yes. What else could she be?

May I borrow your Bible? the brother asked, obviously embarrassed for being without one.

Yes, you can borrow mine… but you… you do not have one?

No, I do not.

You look so young. Are you a real priest? Juana inquired rather bluntly.

Almost.

The information the ladies provided boosted the young brother’s confidence. Juana went on to point out Ramiro and Marcelino, who were already halfway up the hill. Brother Cristóbol made a quick study of the pair and then then thanked the ladies. After sidestepping out of the crowd, he hurried to take his place at the head of the mourners.

Brother Cristóbol made no attempt to reach Ramiro. He couldn’t have if he’d wanted to. By now, the father had dragged Marcelino over the hill, completely out of sight. This is about the time it appeared to the locals that Ramiro was in a big hurry to get this over with. Mainly because Ramiro didn’t normally move this fast, and he never took Marcelino by the hand unless he intended to whip him senseless for doing some silly thing or for not doing some silly thing.

Within a few minutes, the rocky little cemetery would claim another member of the population. Some folks had already taken their places around the grave to await several elderly stragglers moseying along.

The holy man stood at the grave, clutching the Bible. While he waited for everyone to assemble, he practiced different words in his head until a lone carriage caught his eye. And what a fine brougham it was. Highly polished black lacquer, dark as crude oil covered the rig, and a well-dressed coachman held the reins. The magnificent pair of dark horses with their heads up and alert was as eye-catching as the carriage itself. Brother Cristóbol filled his eyes with the beautiful sight. Not since his days in Mexico City had a carriage held his stare so long. Finally, his eyes turned away to search for the man who could own such a rig. A man of impeccible taste, no doubt. And there stood the gentleman, alongside a woman the brother correctly assumed was his wife. But he incorrectly assumed Fernando owned the rig. He did not; he rented it in Monterrey after arriving there by train.

Brother Cristóbol stepped away from the grave to get his mind back on his duty. After strolling nonchalantly up the hill, he found himself among several graves and took notice of the simple headstones. He could easily tell how they were shaped; the edges bore markings of having been pounded with heavy rocks. And the lettering on them all looked to be etched with nails and cut deeply to withstand the erasing of time. He turned around to survey the other markers. Simple wooden crosses with wooden name plaques marked the other graves. Brother Cristóbol saw there was no money here, just more of the hard poverty so widespread in this part of the country.

He wasn’t being judgmental, just observant and merely expressing a view to himself. The young man knew the love these people held for their ancestors couldn’t be measured by what headstones one laid above ground. What’s in the heart matters most. That reminder made him look away to overcome a case of misty eyes.

Across the valley, the San Madres set majestically beneath a deep blue canopy. A gentle yet crisp mountain breeze rolled in, carrying the pleasing scent of pine gathered from the trees scattered along the slopes. Everything around him appeared so wonderful Brother Cristóbol became lost in the wonderment—lost until a large cloud blocked out the sun. He watched the threatening mass creep across the sky like an approaching black curtain. The dark shadow in its wake blanketing the valley floor left him absolutely spellbound. Never in his young life had he seen such an eerie sight. His attention turned to the leading edge that crawled like a black, slithering snake up and down the huge boulders. So enthralling was the spectacle it gave the impression they would all be devoured by the ravenous anomaly. When he realized how silly his thoughts were he chuckled—until a strong gust of wind blew in.

The brother had to use both hands to keep his hat on his head and spread his legs to keep from being blown over. Behind him, all the ladies and girls wearing dresses simultaneously reached down to keep their unmentionables covered. The worst was yet to come. Amid the powerful gust, a huge spout of spiraling dust erupted. It whipped around violently and stung bare flesh so badly it made the small children scream to high heaven. The older children wisely shut their eyes tightly and clung to their mothers for comfort.

What is happening? Are we being punished for being here?

In moments, the dust devil had dissipated. Calm prevailed, but the black cloud still lingered overhead. Although Brother Cristóbol would never admit it to anyone, he read the semi-darkness as a bad omen, which added more sorrow to the young man. He determined then and there and forever that a cemetery could never be loved. His final thought on this matter is that neither his nor anyone’s good words could ever alter a cemetery’s sole purpose. Thinking otherwise would be morbid.

More heavy thought overtook his overactive mind.

"Hermano Cristóbol, we are waiting for you, son," Juana called softly, after rolling a rock to get his attention.

"Oh, my goodness," the brother answered embarrassingly as he hurried over.

A look down showed the coffin already resting at the bottom of the grave. He was stunned and speechless until a throat clearing loudly returned him to duty. His mouth opened then and the eulogy began like the flutter of dove wings. His stutter-free voice rose to the heavens with overwhelming compassion that instantly brought wails from the women. As they cried out, the men bowed their heads in deep respect for the departed and for the sadness of the occasion.

Brother Cristóbol’s symphony of sorrow had no meaning to Marcelino. He couldn’t take his eyes or thoughts from the coffin, or stop quivering with fright and grief. Fright because his father, at his side, reminded him of the punishment for crying—a piece of rope applied with great force across his backside. The memory of stinging flesh made him squint hard to block tears, but some still escaped and rolled down his cheeks. The boy didn’t know it was all right to cry today. Even if he had known, he still would have fought the tears, because they blurred his vision of the crudely made coffin that imprisoned his beloved mother.

At this point, Ramiro Soldano was devoid of remorse. No sign of grief, loss, love, or even concern showed on him. Ramiro was only here because not being here would bring too much ridicule from his neighbors. Still, it would have been advantageous for him to show some fake love for those in attendance, even though they’d recognize bad theater when they saw it. It was no secret to anyone that he never loved or cared for his wife. And he certainly didn’t love or care for his son. Likewise, he was so cold toward the boy he hadn’t offered him solace and never would; he had yet to console him and never would. And he had yet to hold the boy’s hand for any reason other than to drag him here. Ramiro’s bad actions and lack of good ones only amplified the voice in his son’s head that would not stop repeating: I do not want to be here. I want to be in the box with my mother.

The small group around Marcelino was now a cluster of mere strangers who added to his confusion. He’d already checked faces and seen eyes wet with forced tears and mouths drawn tight and hushed. They weren’t hushed when they screamed for him to get away from their children. Their eyes weren’t filled with tears when they called him dirty names. And the men’s hands didn’t hang idly at their sides when they shoved him to the ground or struck him for no reason.

So many faces without names, the boy thought. Where were these ugly people when my mother was alive? Don’t they know their friendship would have stopped my mother from taking her own life? Where were they? Marcelino couldn’t hold back the agony any longer. A stream of tears blurred his vision of the wooden casket he tried desperately to see through. He even commanded the box to release his mother. But its hold never ceased, and tears kept falling on bare little feet.

The father remained unconcerned with his son’s struggle. Instead, Ramiro cast his look across the grave to eye his wife’s brother, Fernando Zammaron. Ramiro couldn’t hide his envy of the man—now or in the past. He’d always wished Fernando would accept him, but he knew Fernando had never felt a sense of love or kinship toward him; he never had and never would. Yet Ramiro always respected Fernando—out of necessity—out of hoping against hope that someday Fernando would change his feelings toward him.

Over the past few minutes, Señor Zammaron’s view of this tragedy took on a whole new meaning. He determined he wouldn’t be standing over his sister’s grave today if he’d been more of a man and less of an older brother when she begged for his blessing to marry Ramiro. You married Soldano against my wishes. I pleaded with you not to marry the worthless man. Time and time again I told you: I know his kind, Rosé, I know his kind! Do not marry Soldano. I begged you, I pleaded with you, but you went on. Now look at you. I should have done something to stop him then, but it’s much too late now . . . or is it?

Fernando had traveled a long way to bury his sister, all the way from his farm in Lytle, Texas. Ramiro was aware of his long journey, and he also knew Fernando was a very wealthy individual. Eyeing Fernando so intently made Ramiro wish he had the money the man had spent to rent the fancy rig, along with the money he carried. If he had that much, what a night he could have in Monterrey.

Obviously, wealth of any kind was a lifelong stranger to Ramiro. His pockets had never known the weight of coins earned through honest work. The tattered, white clothing he wore was indicative of how he lived and made his family live. And his outlook on life was just as poor; he never looked forward to tomorrow; to him, that was for fools and only for fools—his daddy taught him that. Bottom line: wise men know tomorrow will be as miserable as today—his daddy taught him that, too. The most pitiful part is that Ramiro believed this philosophy, wholeheartedly, and lived by it every day of his life.

Eventually, staring across at Fernando reminded Ramiro of the story his father pounded in his head year after year. Although the tale is about gold and copper, those with and those without, Ramiro saw it now pertained to Fernando and him.

Ramiro’s mind began to recount, in detail, the first telling of this. Once again, he was a snot-nosed kid helping his father steal field corn from a neighboring village. He was busy loading a big sack until an ear of corn zinged past his head, which was his father’s order to stop pilfering. Ramiro looked over then and read the hand signal that meant join me at this fallen tree, so he walked there.

"Sit down, carbon. I will tell you a story. No! Not there! You will squash our dinner, idiot. Yes, yes, there. Now sit down and shut up so I can you tell this. Once there was a poor, poor man hoeing corn in a field. For many days he had been doing this. One morning, he chopped and chopped around the corn until he happened upon a hopping gold frog. The man’s eyes lit up, and he got so happy at the sight that he threw down the hoe and chased after the frog as it hopped merrily along, hopping and hopping. All day long the man chased after the frog, reaching and grabbing, reaching and grabbing, but he could never catch it. That gold frog hopped up the mountain and down the mountain and across the stream, and then up the next mountain and down that mountain, until the man became so exhausted he had to take a rest on a rock. As he drew deep breaths, he cursed the leaping frog he could not catch. And I mean with every word he knew the man cursed that frog. Then you know what happened?"

What, Papa?

The tired man had to watch through his tears the gold frog hopping away. And it stayed away forever!

Does the story have a meaning?

"Yes, tonto! There is meaning; there is meaning. You think I would waste my words? The meaning says never go over the mountains chasing gold. Stay here—take care of me and your mother. It is the only way to make sure you don’t die out there where the world is too mean