Not far from the well was one of those curious tree hay-stacks to be seen in some parts of Hungary.  It is the practice to clear away a certain number of the middle branches of a tree, then a wooden platform is constructed, on which a quantity of hay is placed in store for winter use.  This mushroom-shaped hay-rick receives a cover of thatch, out of the centre of which comes the tree-top.

The shade afforded by this wigwam on stilts looked most inviting just then, and we yielded to the seduction.  We got off, and throwing ourselves at full length on the grass, allowed our horses to graze close to us, without taking the trouble to picket them.

The heat of the noonday was perfectly overpowering.  The momentary shade was an intense relief, for we had been in the unmitigated glare of the sun the whole morning.  Of course we quickly had out our cigar-cases, and puffing the grateful weed, we were soon in full enjoyment of dignified ease.  We were in that idle mood when, one says with the lotus-eaters, “taking no care”—­

                        “There is no joy but calm! 
    Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things.”

“Why, indeed, should we toil?” I repeated languidly, at the same time gently and slowly breaking off the end of my cigar-ash.

“Why, indeed?” echoed my friend in a sleepy tone; and, unlike his usual wont, he was quite disinclined to argue the point, being too lazy for anything.

In another moment we had both sprung to our feet, most thoroughly roused from our apathy; the fact was, a big brute of a sheep-dog suddenly jumped in upon us, barking loud and fiercely.  We very soon found means to rid ourselves of the dog, but that was the least part of the incident.  It appeared that the noise and suddenness of the outburst had so frightened our horses that they took to their heels and galloped off as hard as they could tear.  Of course we were after them like a shot, but they had gone all manner of ways.  I spotted my little Servian nag breasting the hill to our right in grand style; the saddle-bags were beating his flanks.  A pretty race we had after those brutes of horses!  We had to jump ditches, and struggle up sandbanks, tear through undercover, and finally H——­ got “stogged” in a treacherous green marsh.  Was there ever anything so exasperating and ridiculous?

After running more or less for three-quarters of an hour in a sweltering heat, we came upon the horses in an open glade in the wood, where they were calmly regaling in green pastures, like lotus-eaters themselves.  Never from that day forward have I forgotten the necessary duty of picketing my horse.