I like to listen to the children when they talk about the banks of the Ipoly. The dragonflies have made their appearance over the slow, warm water. The golden maple has withered in the garden. The crops are hot between the furrows. I like to hear that summer has come. The terrible time is passing. In the name of the Entente, Clemenceau has sent a new ultimatum to the Soviet. “The Hungarian army fighting on Czecho-Slovak territory must be withdrawn at once behind the frontiers fixed for Hungary.... The Rumanian troops will be withdrawn at once as soon as Hungarian troops withdraw from Czecho-Slovakia.... If within four days after the 14th of June the Government does not comply with this demand, the Allies will take punitive measures.” On the other hand the powers of the Entente declare “in the name of peace and justice” that the frontiers to be fixed in a subsequent message will “permanently separate Hungary from Czecho-Slovakia and Rumania and that these Powers will be obliged to withdraw behind the fixed _natural_ frontiers.” An hour must have passed since we began and we are still reading the names of towns and villages cut off by Clemenceau’s line in the name of “peace and justice.” [Illustration: THE FRONTIERS OF HUNGARY] The name of every lost town, every little village is a stab. They want to take the sky above our heads, the ground under our feet. They want to take our ancient Hungarian towns, which we have not conquered by arms but which we have built with the sweat of our brow. They want to take the region of Sopron, where the giant of Hungarian music, Francis Liszt, was born; Czenk, where the builder of modern Hungarian culture, Count Stephen Széchenyi, sleeps his eternal sleep; Pressburg, the ancient coronation town, whence the cry of Hungarian fidelity “_Moriamur pro rege nostro!_” rang out over land and sea. They take Kassa with the grave of the champion of Hungary’s freedom, Francis Rákoczy; Munkács, the birthplace of our great painter, Munkácsy; Gyulafehérvár, the resting-place of Europe’s saviour, John Hunyady, the scourge of the Turks; Kolozsvár, where stands the birthplace of the great prince of the Renaissance, Mathias Corvinus; the field of Segesvár, the cemetery of our national poet, Petöfi. They want to take Arad where thirteen martyrs of our independence, including Count Leiningen, died within an hour for their country. They want to take Szalonta, John Arany’s purely Hungarian birthplace, the district where the oldest and purest Hungarian is spoken. They want to tear from us our brethren the Vends, Ruthenians and millions and millions of Hungarians. They want to take two rivers, the Drava and the Sava, and three mountain ranges, the Tátra, the Mátra and the Fátra, which adorn and form the armorial bearings of Hungary. _And all this never belonged to those to whom it is given._