Produced by Emmy, Beth Baran and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Music transcribed
by Linda Cantoni
[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic
text is surrounded by _underscores_. For this text file, letters with a
caron above them are surrounded by brackets and within the bracket are
preceded by v. For example, [vS]afa[v]rik.]
Our Little Hungarian Cousin
THE
Little Cousin Series
(TRADE MARK)
Each volume illustrated with six or more full-page plates in tint.
Cloth, 12mo, with decorative cover, per volume, 60 cents
LIST OF TITLES
BY MARY HAZELTON WADE
(unless otherwise indicated)
=Our Little African Cousin=
=Our Little Alaskan Cousin=
By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
=Our Little Arabian Cousin=
By Blanche McManus
=Our Little Armenian Cousin=
=Our Little Australian Cousin=
By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
=Our Little Brazilian Cousin=
By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
=Our Little Brown Cousin=
=Our Little Canadian Cousin=
By Elizabeth R. MacDonald
=Our Little Chinese Cousin=
By Isaac Taylor Headland
=Our Little Cuban Cousin=
=Our Little Dutch Cousin=
By Blanche McManus
=Our Little Egyptian Cousin=
By Blanche McManus
=Our Little English Cousin=
By Blanche McManus
=Our Little Eskimo Cousin=
=Our Little French Cousin=
By Blanche McManus
=Our Little German Cousin=
=Our Little Greek Cousin=
By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
=Our Little Hawaiian Cousin=
=Our Little Hindu Cousin=
By Blanche McManus
=Our Little Hungarian Cousin=
By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
=Our Little Indian Cousin=
=Our Little Irish Cousin=
=Our Little Italian Cousin=
=Our Little Japanese Cousin=
=Our Little Jewish Cousin=
=Our Little Korean Cousin=
By H. Lee M. Pike
=Our Little Mexican Cousin=
By Edward C. Butler
=Our Little Norwegian Cousin=
=Our Little Panama Cousin=
By H. Lee M. Pike
=Our Little Persian Cousin=
By E. C. Shedd
=Our Little Philippine Cousin=
=Our Little Porto Rican Cousin=
=Our Little Russian Cousin=
=Our Little Scotch Cousin=
By Blanche McManus
=Our Little Siamese Cousin=
=Our Little Spanish Cousin=
By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
=Our Little Swedish Cousin=
By Claire M. Coburn
=Our Little Swiss Cousin=
=Our Little Turkish Cousin=
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
New England Building, Boston, Mass.
[Illustration: "HE . . . QUICKLY BEGAN A LITTLE TUNE."
(_See page 66._)]
Our Little
Hungarian Cousin
By
Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
Author of "_Our Little Spanish Cousin_," "_Our Little Alaskan
Cousin_," "_Our Little Grecian Cousin_," "_Our Little
Australian Cousin_," "_With a Pessimist
in Spain_," "_God, the King, My
Brother_," etc., etc.
_Illustrated by_
John Goss
[Illustration]
Boston
L. C. Page & Company
_MDCCCCIX_
_Copyright, 1909_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_Entered at Stationers' Hall, London_
_All rights reserved_
_First Impression, October, 1909_
_The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U. S. A._
To
Philip Henry de Roulet
Preface
A PART of the great Austrian Empire, Hungary, is a kingdom in itself,
with its own laws and its own government. Through this land runs the
"beautiful blue Danube," with castles and towns upon its wooded banks;
on one side the mountains, on the other the Great Plains.
Here dwell many races with quaint customs and quainter costumes, and it
is of these people that you will read in OUR LITTLE HUNGARIAN COUSIN.
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I. WITH THE TZIGANES 1
II. ALONG THE GYPSY TRAIL 11
III. AT THE GULYAS' HUT 27
IV. DESERTED! 39
V. THE FAIR OF HAROM-SZÖLÖHOZ 55
VI. VILLAGE LIFE 71
VII. THE UNEXPECTED 83
VIII. MARUSHKA MAKES A JOURNEY 106
IX. "OH, THE EYES OF MY MOTHER!" 123
List of Illustrations
PAGE
"HE . . . QUICKLY BEGAN A LITTLE TUNE"
(_See page 66_) _Frontispiece_
"SEARCHED THROUGH BANDA BELA WITH A KEEN GLANCE" 7
WASHING IN THE RIVER 59
"'WHO IS THIS CHILD?' DEMANDED THE BARONESS" 82
"FIRST CAME MARUSHKA" 92
"'ACROSS THE RIVER YOU SEE BUDA,' SAID THE BARONESS" 115
Our Little Hungarian Cousin
CHAPTER I
WITH THE TZIGANES
BANDA BELA, the little Gypsy boy, had tramped all day through the hills,
until, footsore, weary, and discouraged, he was ready to throw himself
down to sleep. He was very hungry, too.
"I shall go to the next hilltop and perhaps there is a road, and some
passerby will throw me a crust. If not, I can feed upon my music and
sleep," he thought to himself, as he clambered through the bushes to the
top of the hill. There he stood, his old violin held tight in his
scrawny hand, his ragged little figure silhouetted against the sky.
Through the central part of Hungary flows in rippling beauty the great
river of the Danube. Near to Kecskés the river makes a sudden bend, the
hills grow sharper in outline, while to the south and west sweep the
great grass plains.
Before Banda Bela, like a soft green sea, the Magyar plain stretched
away until it joined the horizon in a dim line. Its green seas of grain
were cut only by the tall poplar trees which stood like sentinels
against the sky. Beside these was pitched a Gypsy camp, its few tents
and huts huddled together, looking dreary and forlorn in the dim
twilight. The little hovels were built of bricks and stones and a bit of
thatch, carelessly built to remain only until the wander spirit rose
again in their breasts and the Gypsies went forth to roam the green
velvet plain, or float down the Danube in their battered old boats,
lazily happy in the sun.
In front of the largest hut was the fire-pot, slung from a pole over a
fire of sticks burning brightly. The Gypsies were gathered about the
fire for their evening meal, and the scent of _goulash_ came from the
kettle. Banda Bela could hardly stand from faintness, but he raised his
violin to his wizened chin and struck a long chord. As the fine tone of
the old violin smote the night air, the Gypsies ceased talking and
looked up. Unconscious of their scrutiny, the boy played a _czardas_,
weird and strange. At first there was a cool, sad strain like the night
song of some bird, full of the gentle sadness of those without a home,
without friends, yet not without kindness; then the time changed, grew
quicker and quicker until it seemed as if the old violin danced itself,
so full of wild Gypsy melody were its strains. Fuller and fuller they
rose; the bow in the boy's fingers seeming to skim like a bird over the
strings. The music, full of wild longing, swelled until its voice rose
like the wild scream of some forest creature, then crashed to a full
stop. The violin dropped to the boy's side, his eyes closed, and he fell
heavily to the ground.
When Banda Bela opened his eyes he found himself lying upon the ground
beside the Gypsy fire, his head upon a bundle of rags. The first thing
his eyes fell upon was a little girl about six years old, who was trying
to put into his mouth a bit of bread soaked in gravy. The child was
dressed only in a calico frock, her head was uncovered, her hair, not
straight and black like that of the other children who swarmed about,
but light as corn silk, hung loosely about her face. Her skin was as
dark as sun and wind make the Tziganes, but the eyes which looked into
his with a gentle pity were large and deep and blue.
"Who are you?" he asked, half conscious.
"Marushka," she answered simply. "What is your name?"
"Banda Bela," he said faintly.
"Why do you play like the summer rain on the tent?" she demanded.
"Because the rain is from heaven on all the Tziganes, and it is good,
whether one lies snug within the tent or lifts the face to the drops
upon the heath."
"I like you, Banda Bela," said little Marushka. "Stay with us!"
"That is as your mother wills," said Banda Bela, sitting up.
"I have no mother, though her picture I wear always upon my breast," she
said. "But I will ask old Jarnik, for all he says the others do," and
she sped away to an old Gypsy, whose gray hair hung in matted locks upon
his shoulders. In a moment she was back again, skimming like a bird
across the grass.
[Illustration: "SEARCHED THROUGH BANDA BELA WITH A KEEN GLANCE."]
"Jarnik says you are to eat, for hunger tells no true tale," she said.
"I am glad to eat, but I speak truth," said Banda Bela calmly.
He ate from the fire-pot hungrily, dipping the crust she gave him into
the stew and scooping up bits of meat and beans.
"I am filled," he said at length. "I will speak with Jarnik."
Marushka danced across the grass in front of him like a little
will-o'-the-wisp, her fair locks floating in the breeze, in the half
light her eyes shining like the stars which already twinkled in the
Hungarian sky.
The Gypsy dogs bayed at the moon, hanging like a crescent over the
crest of the hill and silvering all with its calm radiance. Millions of
fireflies flitted over the plain, and the scent of the ripened grain was
fresh upon the wind.
Banda Bela sniffed the rich, earthy smell, the kiss of the wind was kind
upon his brow; he was fed and warm.
"Life is sweet," he murmured. "In the Gypsy camp is brother kindness. If
they will have me, I will stay."
Old Jarnik had eyes like needles. They searched through Banda Bela with
a keen glance and seemed to pierce his heart.
"The Gypsy camp has welcome for the stranger," he said at length. "Will
you stay?"
"You ask me nothing," said Banda Bela, half surprised, half fearing, yet
raising brave eyes to the stern old face.
"I have nothing to ask," said old Jarnik. "All I wish to know you have
told me."
"But I have said nothing," said Banda Bela.
"Your face to me lies open as the summer sky. Its lines I scan. They
tell me of hunger, of weariness and loneliness, things of the wild.
Nothing is there of the city's evil. You may stay with us and know
hunger no longer. This one has asked for you," and the old man laid his
hand tenderly upon little Marushka's head. "You are hers, your only care
to see that no harm comes to these lint locks. The child is dear to me.
Will you stay?"
"I will stay," said Banda Bela, "and I will care for the child as for my
sister. But first I will speak, since I have nothing to keep locked."
"Speak, then," said the old man. Though his face was stern, almost
fierce, there was a gentle dignity about him and the boy's heart warmed
to him.
"Of myself I will tell you all I know," he said. "I am Banda Bela, son
of [vS]afa[v]rik, dead with my mother. When the camp fell with the great
red sickness[1] I alone escaped. Then was I ten years old. Now I am
fourteen. Since then I have wandered, playing for a crust, eating
seldom, sleeping beneath the stars, my clothes the gift of passing
kindness. Only my violin I kept safe, for my father had said it held
always life within its strings. 'Not only food, boy,' he said, 'but joy
and comfort and thoughts of things which count for more than bread.' So
I lived with it, my only friend. Now I have two more, you--" he flashed
a swift glance at the old man, "and this little one. I will serve you
well."
"You are welcome," said old Jarnik, simply. "Now, go to sleep."
Little Marushka, who had been listening to all that had been said,
slipped her hand in his and led him away to the boys' tent. She did not
walk, but holding one foot in her hand, she hopped along like a gay
little bird, chattering merrily.
"I like you, Banda Bela, you shall stay."
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Smallpox.