ble
spendthrifts,[10] but I never spent much myself; six florins a month
were sufficient for me."

[Footnote 10: "Spendthrift," In Hungarian _kolto_, means also "a
poet," as the verb _kolteni_ signifies "to poetise," or "to expend."]

Linka laughed heartily at what she supposed to be a pun of Sandor's.
"Oh! I did not mean that kind of _kolto_," she exclaimed, "but verse
writers."

"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?"

"Well, the prettiest are by Vad Janos."

"Vad Janos! and who is Vad Janos?"

"Ah, now! you see you do not know him, although he was poetical
praeceptora."

"And has he published many works?"

"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.

"It is the name of a newspaper."

"I have never heard of it," sighed the poor girl. "And where does it
appear?"

"Why, in Koros."

"And who is the editor?"

"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 Zsuzs