. Hungary and its people: Magyarorzág és népei. to the air,while the song of the lark, the only bird inhabitant of thePuszta, and now and then the chattering of a stork comingfrom the distant pools, is to be heard. But, impressive asis this sight, it is not to be compared with what is in storefor you if you plunge into the depth of the Puszta, wherenot a trace of human habitation is to be met with, andwhere one no longer sees even the herding cattle. Suddenly,about noon, light after light will flash across the horizon;towns and villages, flocks of cattle, horses and carriages,rivers which are
. Hungary and its people: Magyarorzág és népei. to the air,while the song of the lark, the only bird inhabitant of thePuszta, and now and then the chattering of a stork comingfrom the distant pools, is to be heard. But, impressive asis this sight, it is not to be compared with what is in storefor you if you plunge into the depth of the Puszta, wherenot a trace of human habitation is to be met with, andwhere one no longer sees even the herding cattle. Suddenly,about noon, light after light will flash across the horizon;towns and villages, flocks of cattle, horses and carriages,rivers which are known to be miles and miles distant, allappear and disappear in the sky around you. One mightalmost fancy one was dreaming. But no! it is the FataMorgana who has produced this marvellous spectaclebefore your eyes. Gaze at this phenomenon carefully, foryou may never see such a spectacle again. But why weary the reader with my own impressionsconcerning the grandeur of the Puszta when I can quotethe following from my friend M. Sigismond de Jusths. „-H- !!J*; THE HERDSMAN OF THE a Pencil Sketch by 1\I. de l\Iunkácsy. Page 18. The Puszta, 17 famous work, La Pousta. This young author, who isone of the most proUfic writers of the day, has, likemyself, been born in the heart of the Puszta. Every tree,every plant speaks to us in common language. The musicof the birds song opens our hearts. But nature has giftedhim with higher powers, and, for the moment, I leave thework of description to him. THE PUSZTA.* ** Noon ! Not a sound ! not a movement! The Puszta,in its empty immensity, is sleeping. An intense heat seemsto be weighing down nature, and momentarily her life isarrested. On all sides the far-reaching horizon is uninter-rupted save by a drawing well, or by some isolated Tanyawhose rough wall throws a dark shade on the verdant soilof the dry pasturages, where great white oxen, lazilystretched, are chewing the cud. Many flocks, thus reposing,are seen in varying direc
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, bookpublisherlondongriffithfarr
