“What are to me the wild Carpathian mountains with their pine trees? I may admire them but not love them. Nor does my imagination wander down into their valleys. Down in the interior of the vast and ocean-like plains, _there_ I am at home, and _that_ is my world. If I look at the endless plains my thoughts fly far away, and near to the clouds. I see between the Danube and the Tisza the smiling picture of the plains. Under the Fata Morgana sky the herds of the Kuns are grazing near the wells. I hear the tramp of the furious-riding csikós (cowboys) and the clacking of their whips. Near the puszta, in the lap of the breeze, the corn ears are rocking, and with their bright emerald tint they joyfully crown the land. Here come at twilight the wild ducks, which are driven away from their rest among the reeds by the swaying of the wind. Beyond the farms, in the depths of the puszta, stands a lonely Csárda (inn). It is visited by the thirsty _betyars_ (tramps), who go to the fair of Kecskemét. Near to the groves of the birches you see the melons glittering in the sands. Here, close by, nestles the bird, undisturbed by the children; here is cultivated the maidenhair plant and the blue cornflower, and the lizards come to take shelter from the broiling sun under their roots. Far away, where the sky touches the earth in mist, the blue orchards are to be seen. Behind them the spires of the churches of the distant towns stand out in dim fog-like streaks. You are beautiful, Alföld! At least you are beautiful to me. Here I was born and cradled, and here I would have my eyelids closed, and my tomb raised.” The poet’s wish was not realized, for he fell at the battle of Segesvár (Schassburg) in Transylvania, in 1849, and was buried in an unnamed grave. Of the Alföld which he loved, we get, as has been said, but glimpses passing down the Danube. In the autumn when the maize is being harvested we may see great mounds of the cobs, already husked before leaving the field, like hillocks of gold awaiting removal, or may see long wagons, drawn by wide-horned oxen, bearing golden loads to the granaries. Again and again, too, we shall see the curious poles which mark the wells, and form a common characteristic feature of this lowland scenery. On the top of a tall perpendicular pole is another, placed transversely; from the thin end hangs a bucket, while the other end has either the trimmed stump of the tree of which the pole is formed, or else something heavy bound to it, to afford a counterbalancing weight when the bucket is drawn up full. A well of this kind is seen by each of the low white cottages or tiny farmsteads that we pass, and by them, too, are frequently seen little “granaries,” of the same size and shape as those to be seen in the north of Spain, but plainer in design.