We had the great good-fortune to be personally conducted through this interesting region by Mr. Louis Gerster, the vice-consul of the United States at Budapest, who met us at the mouth of the canal and who, from long acquaintance with the population, was able to steer our course successfully among the manifold ethnological and philological shoals on which we should certainly have been wrecked had we been travelling alone. He placed a small propeller at our disposal, and we made the journey as far as the Theiss, shooting the wild-fowl with which this region abounds, visiting all the villages, and studying the natives, their customs, costumes, and modes of life. The few days we spent in his company along the Franzens Canal would make a volume in itself, and it is only because we must not pause in the tale of our Danube voyage that we are obliged to keep the log-book of this side trip closed. Russians, Bulgarians, Saxons, Servians, Jews, Gypsies, Schokaczs, Bunyvaczs, and other known and unknown races and tribes, each with distinctly different dress, language, and customs practically unchanged by transplantation into Hungarian soil, so bewitched us with the charms of constant variety and novelty that our trip was one round of exhilarating and delightful impressions. Thanks to the excellent management of our friend, we were able to spend a Saturday afternoon and part of Sunday in the Schokacz village of Monostorszég, situated on the banks of the Danube, but so hidden away behind islands that it would not have attracted our attention from the canoes, and even if we had seen it, we would [Illustration: SCHOKACZ TYPES] not have suspected the existence of the treasures it held for us. The village itself is not unlike many others we visited, with broad streets shaded by acacias and mulberries, low whitewashed houses, a large barren church edifice, and a few unobtrusive shops. In the daytime, particularly in the harvest season, the whole place is deserted except by a few old people and children. With the peep of day the entire adult population rattles away over the plain in springless wicker wagons to the cornfields, often miles distant. As the sun gets low in the afternoon the dusty streets are again lively with laden carts and wagons full of chattering, singing girls as brown as Indians. The village swineherd, who has watched his unsavory flock on the muddy shores of the Danube through the heat of the day, now drives them to the village again, and as they approach their homes they scamper away, each to his own sty, adding the harsh notes of shrill squeals and grunts to the chorus of general congratulation that the hot day is past and the coolness of the night is at hand.