Hungary and the Hungarians . this dour, hardy race are continuallybeing stirred into animosity to-day by wayward priestsagainst Magyar rule. You see in their cold cleareyes the spirit of revolt, and when you get to knowthem you hear the rumblings of a growing descendants of the Moravians stand out inremarkable contrast with the picturesque district inwhich they live. The imprint of poverty lies heavilyupon them. The memory of one of these sorrowingsouls I shall ever carry with me. He stood at the endof the bridge which leads from the more pretentiousKassa-Oderberg line to the
Hungary and the Hungarians . this dour, hardy race are continuallybeing stirred into animosity to-day by wayward priestsagainst Magyar rule. You see in their cold cleareyes the spirit of revolt, and when you get to knowthem you hear the rumblings of a growing descendants of the Moravians stand out inremarkable contrast with the picturesque district inwhich they live. The imprint of poverty lies heavilyupon them. The memory of one of these sorrowingsouls I shall ever carry with me. He stood at the endof the bridge which leads from the more pretentiousKassa-Oderberg line to the circuitous cog-wheel railwayconnecting Csorba with Csorba-t6. With an almostreverential bow he wished me dobra jutra, hisfemale companion joining him in the salutation. Inappearance he resembled one on priestly errand hat was a picture, and he himself a perfect studyin black and white. All the slowness of his raceseemed to envelop him. Beside him, upon which atiny child rested, were two parcels, one a box of strange. THE CARPATHIANS AND ITS PEOPLES 45 and ambiguous workmanship, the other a long canvasbag such as soldiers carry. These formed a fittingbase to such a column of human feeling. For somemoments I stood and watched this group, for I feltsomething of the pathos of departure. Then amountain mist like a huge mantle gradually coveredall, and a slow sweep of the arm over the entirecountry indicated the sense of farewell. Rising higherand higher into the mountain region, I heard the lowwail of the emigrant as he sang that last terrible songof departure. No one seemed disturbed save the song of the peasant returned, and with thesong came another glimpse and a lasting one of thewanderer, Slovak songs are full of tears. The Slovaks have little or no independent history,have striven for no renown, but are as an Americanwriter described them, the stepchildren of me give you just a glimpse of a Slovak of its distinguishing features is a
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