VALUES OF THE PULI I.
† The crickets fell silent in the darkness of the meadow. Almost every leaf of grass is ready to start. Perhaps everything, everything is waiting for the majestic moment when the first rays of sunlight of dawn are stroking the dewdrops. Contrary to the noise of the city, who would not experience that wonderful dazzle day by day as on the horizon varied by the skyscrapers the dominant power of the puszta is able to come through only later. This is not the case on the Hungarian puszta that extends farther than the eye can reach. Namely, the sunrise itself is an event here, as the moment is preceded by waiting dead silence. The stars are struggling to show off their truth on the field of power of lightness, but at that time it is sufficient, by gathering their last strength, only to accompany their master, the fat Moon from the stage of its night acting. A silence before event is reigning on the Hungarian puszta.
And then, like the ray of hope behind the dark stormy clouds, the hand of the Sun breaks through to finally pull apart the curtain of the night and to bring the impulse of the morning. Contrary to the honey-cake and pink fog of fairyland, the real Hungarian peasants are never waken up by the cock. It is still sleeping on the sitting pole of the dark corner of the poultry house. In the contrary, the Puli sees first the daylight under the open air. As a good servant, she has learnt that she must not wake up the master at that time, as somebody who wakes up from his first dream to noise, will put his left leg on the ground first, for which, as a clumsy part, it is more difficult to find the slippers and thus the day starts with annoyance. The Puli as a real night guard rather calls the cock so that he will be reprimanded by the master. She barks some so that, by recovering from nodding, he will be the first to leave the gate of his night empire, the door of the poultry house. As soon as he sticks out his head for the barking, the cockís eyes will immediately be blinded by the flat rays of sunlight so he flies into a violent crowing. After the Puli got all animals recovered from their morning daze, sits in front of the entrance of the house as if she did her work well. Her attention is unflagging, and she waits whether the shiny copper handle moves at last, and He, the lord majesty master steps out of the door like the heavenís gate. The very much awaited apparition comes true with a head with feathers due to the torn quilt, with bleary eyes of the night ecstasy and in a misbuttoned shirt. The moment comes with the burden of dazed thoughts, with a hawking throat due to the first drag on his pipe, however the Puli came to the irrepressible peak of her nerve endings. She tells by jumping round and round the events of the night to her sleepy commander squinting at her with half an eye. As a proof of effective impression she does not only recite but pours her own words, and acts all those by presenting scenes. All those that the wanderer came at about midnight, he would perhaps pilfer the herd. Saint George came for nothing, many offspring are born, the herd is growing and Holy Innocents are gathering in the shadow of the cloven hoofs. She also knows that, the commander of the sheep-fold and the meadow in charge and she also knows that contrary to the well-experienced sheep, the little ones often make their bleating voice heard for milk and for the warmness of their mother. Not because she sleeps near the herd even at a single night as the captain, but her vigilant blood is more vivid then, nevertheless it would be a hard task to increase or describe the consciousness of her responsibility. She had already refreshed herself as a stumbling puppy when she crawled with shaking legs out of her straw-scented couch at once to follow her mother to see this maid-of-all-work occupation. She was the first among her brothers and sisters who had satisfied her curiosity as to why her breast-feeding mother leaved them sometimes alone. The master saw that and put the little one into his lap to bring her out from the crib into the light and to lift her by grabbing his neck. He lifted her and showed her to the whole manor and to the Sun itself. She will be the one to whom the torch will be passed on when the time comes, and she will be the one from whom the animals on the puszta will take their orders above all after the master. It was a long time ago and she is faithfully on service since then and wakes up everybody on the puszta when the sun begins to arise.
But suddenly the dream flies out of the masterís eyes because during the brilliant acting, by rubbing his sleepy eyes, he just notices a dramatic tone in the acting of the Puli. He let, only for this time, his subordinate complete her proclamation and follows her just to the wooden door of the sheep-fold. At that time the Puli comes to the peak of her bloody scenes, whimpers and heavily scratches the door. An unprofessional eye would surely turn to a veterinarian for medicine. But not the master, who gets on the same wave-length in his catharsis with the Puli, he tears the door like a mad and as soon as he recovers from the scent of the biteable fog of the first sheep scent of the night, hurries to the sheep. It is the right thing to do because the shower of rain which leads to the multiplication of the sheep society has continued at night. This would not be so strange because this is always the case in spring, but the silly lamp, by searching the first nipple, got stuck among the planks of the fence. The master is touching its neck, after he pushed it back and freed it from its capture that might have been fatal; its mother appeared suddenly and diligently because she very much wished to be released from the tensive feeling that she kept for her offspring. The glorious background music did not fail to come about in the gloom of the sheep-fold of the great moment when the redeeming drops of the first streams of milk ran down the throat of the lamb got into trouble in the form of draughts. As the canon of the squelching base tone, the Puli barked with pleasure, standing on her two feet next to the master by pushing his pocket with grub. The third rhythm of the squelch accompanied by the same tempo barking was an acknowledged wheezing from the throat of the mother who got her child. The first praise was born under the moustache as a transfigured ovation of the concert, by raising a smile under the unsettled moustache in the corner of the mouth of the short-spoken peasant. A thunderous applause does not worth much, a frenetic applause would not cause much pleasure than this sign. But the master just realized that the day was passing, his rumbling stomach had a few simple words regarding this, that is, it became morning and the breakfast was to come. The Puli followed him with enthusiasm just until the prohibited door with the copper handle, the prohibited gate of the fairyland, which hid so much secret as it was closed in front of her; only some floating scents suggested sometimes a little for her good nose. But then came the wonder of the resurrection itself in the form of a white bacon, which interestingly was not served by the master on a silver-plate before the bib of his servant, but was thrown out by the mistress with a graceful move to the doorsill as some reward. But the Puli knew well for what she received that and it was imprinted deeply on her memory who sent the work fruit of the herd of the pigsty as an uncommon breakfast in front of her hungry mouth. As an acknowledgement of her own work she ate it immediately by nodding, and she even licked the fluid of the fat of the noble ďmangalicaĒ pig from the stone as a dessert to prove that She as the Puli would not do a half-job. By staving off her hunger created by her night watch, she sat again to watch the copper handle because she knew well that her commander will appear soon to start at last their way together, the master, she and the sheep herd, after her chasing away of the wanderer, watching the lamb and waking up the cock at night. Far away under the open air, because the whether is like this around Saint Georgeís day. The vivid grass is calling the herd to walk and bite like Hungarian so that at last there should be somebody who unify their factional species, being lost in the self-forgetting grazing so that their noses stand in the same direction, that is, the right direction, according to the masterís mind. But the copper is already moving, the wing is opening, there is a bundle on the masterís shoulder, and the time is here, the real time, the working time Ö