On the far-reaching Alföld it is the majestic Nothing that awes and impresses you. There are neither trees nor pastures, neither hills nor dales, neither flocks nor people. Simply miles and miles of nothing, arched over by the blue of heaven, but if you look closely you will find on the sand the tiny traces of fairy footsteps. It has its own peculiar fairies as well as its own peculiar grasses, flowers, birds and insects. Fata Morgana is the sovereign who queens it over them there; but she shows herself more rarely every year. Silence broods over all, and subtle fitful shadows chase each other across the “large neglect” of this broad expanse, where patches of long knotted grass and charming water weeds wave and toss feebly in the balmy breeze. Wild ducks and moor-hens share the shelter of “withied” swamps with the heron, the crane and the stork, and gaze without a sign of fear or trepidation on the rare passer-by.

But this was written many years ago, and much of the area has been drained since then.

Any one familiar with the prairie can well picture the Alföld with its undying fascination, and will be able to see it in the mind’s eye as it lies with miles and miles of yet unripened corn like a vast ocean brushed into small waves by the wind. There is hardly a tree, and the sky-line, unbroken in its tremendous semicircle, sweeps on ever infinitely. It is difficult to give any idea of the Alföld, unless the characteristics of the people who dwell in it are taken into account as throwing light upon it. This great plain, once an inland sea, contained at one time a gigantic marsh of 100,000 acres, and the rivers Theiss (or Tisza) and Danube overflowed their banks occasionally, making it impossible for any one to live near them in safety. Now a great part of the marsh has been drained, the rivers are confined to their channels, and their backwaters and islets form a breeding-place for thousands of geese, which at times may be seen in such numbers that it seems as though the land was covered with large snowflakes.

Here is a translation of an old national song:

THE ALFÖLDER

I dwell on the heath through sunshine or snow,

And on holidays I with my dear one can go;

But far on the Hortobagy plain,

In vain to God’s house would I hie—in vain.

Flat is the heath where no trees do grow,