Lucky it is that no one outside the Hortobagy knows about this "poor
man's peat" which is gathered on the meadow-land. One thing is
certain--it is no lily-of-the-valley. It is the sole fuel of the puszta
herdsman, in fact, a sort of zoological peat.
We remember the tale of the Hungarian landowner who, finding it
advisable to go abroad after the Revolution, chose free Switzerland as a
temporary place of residence. But his eyes never grew used to the high
mountains. Every evening, on withdrawing to his room, he would take a
piece of "peat," found on the pasture, and laying it on the hearth,
kindle it. Then, as he sat with closed eyes in the smell of the smoke,
he would once more fancy himself back on the wide, wide plains, among
the moving herds and tinkling cow bells, and all the rest for which his
soul longed. . . .
Well, if this peat-smoke can exert such a strong influence on an
educated mind, how were it possible to doubt the following story?
The travellers had to wait two more days at the Polgar ferry.
On the third, about midnight, the ferry-man brought the glad tidings to
the expectant crowd, whose patience and provisions were alike exhausted,
that the Theiss had fallen greatly. The ferry-boat had been replaced,
and by morning they would be able to cross.
Those with carts lost no time in running them on board, and arranging
them side by side. Next they took the horses. Then came the turn for the
cattle. Room was made for them with difficulty. The crush was great, but
mild, after all, to what theatre-goers usually endure!
Last of all, the bull, the terror of everyone, was brought, and now no
one remained but the herdsman and his horse. The two Moravian drovers
took their places between the cows and the carts. But as yet no start
could be made. The tow-rope was strained taut by the water, and they
were obliged to wait till the sunshine could relax it somewhat. Moisture
was rising like steam all along its surface.
So the cowherd, wishing to utilise the time, suggested that the
ferry-man might cook them a "paprikas" of fish. Nothing else eatable was
to be had, but a pot was at hand, likewise plenty of fish, left by the
receding waters. The boatmen caught them by sticking an oar under their
gills--fat carp, silurius, and sturgeon. These they hastily cleaned, cut
up, and cast into the pot, underneath which a little fire was kindled.
Now all was ready, when the question rose: "Who has 'paprika'?" Every
ordinary, self-respecting Hungarian carries his own supply in his
knapsack; but after a three days' famine even "paprika" will give out!
Nevertheless, no "paprika," no fish stew.
"I have some," said the cowboy, and pulled a wooden box from his sleeve.
Every one noted what a far-seeing man he must be to reserve his own
"paprika" for the last extremity, and henceforth regarded him as the
saviour of the party.
The stew-pot was in the end of the ferry-boat, and to reach it the
herdsman traversed its whole length, the cattle being stationed about
the middle. But, then, who cares to let his box of "paprika" out of his
own hand? While the ferry-man was busy seasoning the fish with the red
pepper (Oken, writing about it, calls it _poison_; but that some wild
tribes dare to eat it), the cowboy took the opportunity to drop his
piece of "peat," unobserved into the fire.
"I say! that 'paprikas' must be singeing! What a smell it has!" remarked
the cobbler presently.
"Smell! Stink I would call it," corrected the itinerant cloak vendor.
But the heavy greasy odour affected the noses of the cattle more
markedly. First, the bull grew restless, snuffed in the air, shook the
bell at his neck and lowed, then lowering his head and lifting his tail
began to bellow dangerously. At that the cows got excited, capered to
and fro, reared up on each others backs, and jostled to the side of the
ferry-boat.
"Mother Mary! Holy Anna! Protect the ship!" shrieked the fat soap-maker.
"Hurry up, mistress! seat yourself opposite. That will steady her
again," joked the shoemaker.
But it was no joke. Every man on board had to clutch the rope to keep
the ferry-boat from tilting over; the other side dipped nearly to the
water.
Suddenly the bull gave a bellow, and with one great bound, jumped into
the river. Another moment, and everyone of the four and twenty cows had
followed him over the edge.
The ferry was just about half-way across.
"Turn back! Turn back!" screamed the Moravian drovers, as the cattle
swam straight towards the bank they had left. They wanted the ferry-boat
to return instantly, that they might go after their beasts.
"The devil a bit of turning back!" shrieked the market folk. "We must
cross! We are late enough for the fair as it is!"
"No need to howl, lads," said the herdsman, with exceeding calm. "I'll
bring them to their right minds."
He jumped on his horse, led it along to the end of the ferry, and
sticking spurs into its sides, leapt over the rail into the water.
"See, the cowherd will overtake them, no fear!" So the cobbler assured
the despairing drovers.
But the horse-cooper, left behind on the bank, for he had not managed to
find room for his horses on board, nor had wished to frighten them among
so many cattle, was of a contrary opinion.
"You'll never see more of that herd!" he yelled to the travellers on the
ferry-boat. "You may whistle for them!"
"There goes that Jonah again! Where is there a ham bone to shoot him
with?" stormed the cobbler.
The herd neared the bank in straggling order, and reaching the shallows,
waded out to dry land. The herdsman was behind, for cattle swim faster
than a horse. When he too landed, he undid the stock-whip from his neck
and cracked it loudly.
"There! He's turning them!" said the market people to console the
drovers.
But the cracking of a whip only serves to make cattle run on the faster.
The passengers found much exercise for their wit in this cattle
incident. The ferry-men assured them with oaths that it was not the
first time by any means that it had happened. Beasts brought from the
Hortobagy so often were assailed by home sickness that no sooner was the
ferry-boat put in motion than they would turn restive and spring
overboard, swim to the bank, and run back to the puszta.
"Men have the same love of home and country," said the ginger-bread man,
who, having often read of it in books, recognised the complaint.
"Ah, yes!" exclaimed Mistress Pundor, "no doubt the cows have gone home
to their little calves. That was the mistake, to separate the children
from their dear mothers!"
"Now my idea is different," said the cobbler, who was nothing if not
sceptical. "I have heard often enough that those cunning betyars, when
they want to scatter a herd, put some grease in their pipes. The beasts,
when they smell it, go stark, staring mad, and scuttle away in all
directions. Then it is easy enough for the betyar to catch a nice little
lot for himself. Now I scent something of the sort in this business."
"What you smell something, Daddy, and you don't run away from it?"
Everyone laughed.
"Wait a bit! Just you wait till we get on shore!" said the cobbler.
The Moravian drovers, however, saw nothing laughable in the vagaries of
their herd, nor even matter suitable for a discussion on natural
history, but began howling and lamenting like burnt-out gypsies.
The old ferry-man, who talked Slav, attempted to console them. "Now
don't howl, lads. 'Nye stekat.' He's not stolen your cows, the good
herdsman. Those two letters, 'D.T.,' on the copper plate at the side of
his cap don't mean 'dastard, thief,' but Debreczin Town. He can't run
off with them. When we come over again they'll all be standing there in
a group. He'll drive them back, sure enough. Why even his dog went after
him! But when we take the cattle on board again we must fasten the cows
three together, and tie the bull by the horns to that iron ring. It will
be all right, only you must pay the passage money twice."
A good hour and a half elapsed before the ferry-boat reached the other
bank, unloaded, reloaded, and returned to the Hortobagy side of the
river. Then the drovers ran up the hill to the ferry-house, and sought
their cattle everywhere. But none were to be seen.
The horse-dealer said that the angry beasts had galloped madly past
towards the brushwood, and had quickly disappeared among the willows.
They did not go towards the high road, but ran down wind, heads to the
ground, tails up, like beasts attacked by a plague of flies.
A belated potter, coming up from Ujvaros with a crockery-laden cart,
related how somewhere on the puszta he had met with a herd of cattle,
which with a horseman and dog at their heels, had dashed roaring along,
towards the Zam hills. Coming to the Hortobagy river, they had all
jumped in, and he had lost sight of both rider and cows among the thick
reeds.
The ferry-man turned to the gaping drovers,
"Now you _may_ howl, countrymen!" he said.