"Ah, indeed!" replied Sandor, looking vacantly out of the window; "I did not see any such in Pesth."
"But you have read their works? for instance, Vorosmarty."
"O yes, certainly; that was what Kisfaludy wrote, was it not?"
"Ah no! Vorosmarty himself was the author."
"Aha! I know now: it was he who wrote Kisfaludy."
"How you are quizzing me! You cannot make me believe that you do not know the Magyar poets."
"Umph! singular! Well, if I do not know one, I know another; I am very fond of poetry, and I can repeat some verses by heart."
"Pretty ones? Perhaps you will write a few in my album; who are they by?"
"Ah, now! you see you do not know him, although he was poetical præceptora."
"Why, I believe so. That beautiful poem called 'Spring;' then his 'Ode to a Sausage'--that's a capital thing; and then the 'Maize King's complaint against the Trailing Bean'--ah, that is superb!"
"And where are they all published?" asked Linka humbly.
"Why, in the _Hippocrene_," replied Sandor confidently.
"And what is that?" asked Lina again, with pious awe.
"I have never heard of it," sighed the poor girl. "And where does it appear?"
"The students write it themselves,[11] whoever has the best hand; and then we take it about to all the pretty girls to read--that is, I never brought it to anybody," said Sandor, hastening to justify himself, lest he might be suspected of visiting pretty girls.
[Footnote 11: This is really done in the smaller towns.]
How many are there who never learn anything after they leave school, and grow old with the same ideas they brought from their classes! I had a schoolfellow about fourteen years ago, who could tell a pleasant anecdote pretty well. I met him again this year; we had only exchanged a few words, when he began the old anecdote.
While the two old gentlemen were looking at the stud, Aunt Zsuzsi had stepped into the garden--not exactly to look at the flowers, but to find out what sort of things Lina kept for the kitchen use; while Peterke ran up and down the beds, looking for butterflies and beetles. In the midst of his career, he happened to upset one of the bee-hives; and the bees consequently stung him so furiously, that his whole face was swelled like a bladder, and the eyes almost entirely disappeared. On hearing his cries, mamma ran up, and taking him by the hand, led him into the house. On any other occasion, he would have been severely punished, besides having been stung; but here everybody endeavoured to be sweet-tempered, as if the whole family were made of milk and butter.