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Its rocky, snow-filled crags formed the face of a leering monster.
The oil froze in little Pedro's cylinders and his motor knocked with fright. All those warnings came back to him now: the treacherous crosscurrents, the sudden storms. Climb above the storm, Pedro! Never mind the mail! Let it go! Let it go! Forget the mail! Climb, Pedro! Climb! Look out! Climb, Pedro! Climb!
Get above the storm!
I know you can make it! Drop the mail! Youíve got to save yourself! More altitude! 25,000's all you need! Up! Up! Gun your motor! Now just a little more and youíll be in the clear! Climb, Pedro! Climb! Good boy! Good boy! I knew you could make it! Youíre all right now. Just level off and head straight for home. He's out of gas. Pedro! Pedro! He's gone. Back at the home field. Pedro's parents searched the skies in vain. They knew that he couldnít have held out this long. Their brave little son was gone
another martyr to the mail service.
Poor little fella. His first flight. It's too bad it had to end this way. What was that? I wonder if it... No, it couldnít be. Wait! It is! It's Pedro! Pedro! Petey boy! Are you all right? Well, donít ask me how he did it.
It wasnít exactly a three-point landing but he did fulfil his mission.
He brought the mail through. The mail, that all-important cargo. Having wonderful time. Wish you were... Well, it might have been important.
And he did bring in the mail.
And so, the papa plane, the mama plane and little Pedro flew happily ever after.
NARRATOR: Sailing eastward from Chile, we cross the Argentine pampas. Just millions of acres of rich grazing land, stretching from the mountains to Buenos Aires, the third largest city in the Western Hemisphere.