The road was simply alive--peasants leading in their horses, recruits wearing the Hungarian red, white and green in their hats, cartloads of Jews huddled together weeping and wailing because their Moishes and Aarons had to go, wild-looking gipsies who had never done military service, dancing and singing in the gladness of their hearts that when others were taken they were left to steal and sing. * * * * * The town of S---- was seething with excited gesticulating crowds of people--all soldiers and recruits were drunk--the women-folk sobbing and screaming--the gipsies who lived in the town drunken and singing and dancing like their brethren in the country--every one was hurried and anxious, men, women, children and horses were all mixed up and military automobiles rushing about everywhere.... We reached the Oberstuhlrichter's door in safety, but so bruised and breathless that we could hardly move. Our friend, the Oberstuhlrichter was so harassed and overworked, that he had nothing to say but--"For the love of Heaven, my dears, go away. I really know nothing myself except that Germany and Russia are now in the fray and I've got to get all the recruits away from here at once. Now go away and leave me." VII--THE WISDOM OF UNCLE PISTA From him we went to Aunt Sharolta and Uncle Pista--in Hungary all older people are addressed as uncle or aunt. Aunt Sharolta was nearly blind, but wonderfully sweet and gentle; and Uncle Pista was small, round and jovial--red-faced and white-haired. He always wore a piece of plaster on his nose, and we often speculated as to what might be below that plaster, for it certainly never was changed, and whether it had originally been black or pink no one knew, for from time immemorial it was grey. He was the most intrepid politician I have ever met. He had learned geography sixty years ago, had forgotten it for fifty, and I doubt if he rightly knew where Serbia lay from Austria. His daughters' geographical views were based on their father's. When, on this particular day, we appeared in their house, hot and breathless and looking as if we had been picked out of the hay-stack, we found Uncle Pista bemoaning his horses and saying that if this sort of thing would continue he would have no nerves left. Aunt Sharolta was turning out all her drawers for things to manufacture into comforts for the soldiers, and having unearthed a piece of grey material embroidered with rose-buds she was making it into a chest-protector. "Our boys," she explained, "will die of cold in Russia, if we don't make warm clothes for them." "What's more to the point, my horses will die of cold in Russia," grumbled Uncle Pista. "You don't think, then, that the Russians may break into Galicia?" I suggested.