> And there was that pit on Dionisio Pulido’s farm. It had been there a long time. Señora Severina Murillo had played around it as a girl, fifty years before. It was maybe five meters (16 feet) in diameter, and maybe a meter and a half (5 feet) deep. It made strange noises, underground noises, sounds like rocks falling. The kids found it warm, and their sticks never reached the bottom. Storm waters drained through it in the winter, and sometimes there would be a mist, but it was never hot, not so Sr. Pulido noticed. He’d stash his yoke and plow there, sometimes, when he didn’t feel like hauling them all the way back to Parícutin village. He and his brother would sometimes try to fill in the hole, but no matter how much material they threw in to it, they could never fill it. A depression had formed around it the previous August. But no one thought much of it.

Part I: http://blogs.scientificamerican.com/rosetta-stones/2013/02/2...

Part II: http://blogs.scientificamerican.com/rosetta-stones/2013/02/2...