had been a csikos,[6] and was an
inveterate specimen of cleverness and roguish insolence.

[Footnote 6: _Csikos_, who take care of the horses and studs of the
vast meadows or heaths, called _puszta_.]

"Is there any hay to be sold here, sir?" he asked, saluting the master
of the house.

"Hay! hay! for whom do you want hay?"

"Not for myself, sir, but for my horses--that is, not for my horses,
but for my master's."

"Well, let's see; I believe I can give you a little," said Hamvasi,
weighing each word, as he took the key of the barn from his pocket,
and went out. The guests could hear the murmurs of Boris outside the
door:--"The tartar take them all! to come to an honest man's house
with four horses, just that they might devour more hay, as if two were
not enough!"

Master Abraham gave the key to Matyi, making him promise not to drop
any of the hay about, because it was dear; and, after watching till he
had returned, he re-entered, and resumed his seat without speaking.

In a few minutes, Matyi came in again: "Where shall I find a tavern
sir?"

"A tavern! what do you want a tavern for?"

"Not for the horses, sir, but for myself. I want to get a glass of
wine."

"Well, I will give you one just now," said Uncle Abris, and taking the
key of the cellar, he went out, desiring Matyi to wait at the
entrance.

Boriska stormed and dashed about, scolding and holding forth to
herself.

Scarcely had the old gentleman re-entered and silence resumed her
reign, than Matyi appeared a third time: "Boriska wants to know, sir,
what she shall cook for supper?"

"Supper! are you used to sup?" asked Uncle Abris, turning to his
guests.

"That we are," replied Karely quickly, before his gentle mother had
time to say the contrary.

Master Abris sighed deeply, rose and went into the kitchen, whence he
was heard talking in a low voice to Boriska, who, on the contrary,
spoke as loud as possible, so as to be heard in the next room.

"What! that beautiful fowl!--have you lost your senses? I make a fire
now! there is no wood cut. Let them eat cheese, there is plenty of
bread. Indeed I shall not open the pot of preserves--I can't knead
puddings, I've a sore hand. I am not a cook; and why don't you keep
one, if you want to turn innkeeper?"

All this was heard distinctly by the guests within. And now, for once,
Uncle Abris really got into a passion, and, going out to the court, he
struck down a renowned cock with the rolling-pin,