"You're a funny little bit of a Marushka," he said. "Yesterday you hadn't a frock to your name, only a little rag of a shirt, and you were all dirty and your hair had never been combed. Now you have a pretty dress and an embroidered apron, and hair like a high-born princess, yet you are not satisfied, but must have top boots! They would pinch and hurt your feet terribly and cramp your toes so that you couldn't wiggle them at all. After you had worn boots awhile your toes would get so stiff that you couldn't use them as fingers as we do. People who always wear boots cannot even pick up anything with their toes. If they want a stick or anything that has fallen to the ground they have to bend the back and stoop to pick it up with the fingers."
Marushka looked thoughtful for a moment, her little toes curling and wriggling as she dug them into the sand, then she said:
"But the boots are so pretty, Banda Bela, I would like them!" The boy laughed.
"You will have to have them someway, little sister," he said. "And one of those bright little jackets, too, since you so much like to be dressed up like a fine bird."
"Why do some of the women wear jackets and some not, and some of them such queer things on their heads?" asked Marushka.
"This fair brings people from all around and there are many kinds of people in Hungary," he said. "Those tall straight men with faces all shaved except for the waxed moustache are Magyars, while the fair-haired fellows who look as if they didn't care about their clothes and slouch around are called Slövaks. The girls who wear those long, embroidered, white robes, sandals on their feet and black kerchiefs on their heads, are Roumanians. The Magyar girls wear gold-embroidered aprons, big white sleeves and zouave jackets, and the boots you like so much."
"I am a Magyar," said Marushka, tossing her head proudly. "All but the boots."
"High-born Princess, boots you shall have," laughed Banda Bela. "But how?" He knit his brows, as they stopped at a stall where boots were displayed for sale. "I know!" he cried, while Marushka looked longingly at the boots. "I shall play for them."
His violin was under his arm, and he raised it to his chin, tuned it softly, and quickly began a little tune. Hungarians love music and it was but a moment before a crowd gathered around. He played a gay little song, "Nezz roysám a szemembe," one of the old Magyar love songs in which a lover implores his sweetheart to look into his eyes and read there that for him she shines like a star in the blue of heaven, and when he had finished everyone cried for more. This time he whisked into a dance tune and feet patted in time to the music and faces were fairly wreathed in smiles. When he stopped with a gay flourish, everybody cried, "More, boy, more!" and Banda Bela smiled happily as one in the crowd tossed him a krajczar.[9] He took off his cap and passed it around among the crowd. Many a krajczar fell into it and one silver piece came from a Magyar officer, a tall fine-looking man with a sad face, who stood on the edge of the crowd.
"Who are you, boy, and why do you play? Do you need money?" asked the officer.