June was drawing to its end, and the rainy season was entering its finest days. Drizzling raindrops fell from low, heavy clouds, soaking the fields east and west of the mountains. On the western side of the mountains, in the Lake Texcoco region, lush green farmland spread everywhere, the four wilds brimming with vigorous life.
Spring plowing had come in May, and the maize had been planted for a little over a month. At this time, rainfall was abundant and heat plentiful; it was just the good season for jointing and growth. In the fields, the maize stalks were growing sturdily upward at a speed visible to the naked eye. Beans climbed along the stems, stretching toward the sky together with them. Squash spread beneath the stalks, stubbornly covering the ground. From time to time, weeds could be seen poking up in the fields, only to be seized by large, callused hands and yanked out by the roots!
Farmers at this time were just as busy. Day after day, they had to hurry through the fields, weeding the early-summer plots to keep the soil's nourishment from being thinned away. And the nobles and warriors who controlled manure and lake mud would also, at this time, sternly urge their subordinate serfs to carefully top-dress the Chinampa floating fields.
"When maize is jointing, if you pour life into the farmland, you can effectively increase the yield of the season. For maize is a child of the earth; it grows hungry when it joints, and its appetite is at its best."
The village priest of the Main God taught everyone so. These sayings about farming came partly from experience passed down by the old, and partly from summaries made in the western kingdom; together, they raised the yield of the fields and tamped