THE CAMP BY THE OWL'S NEST 



I feel as if I were on a redoubt, alone against fifteen. 



The dogs are raging with hunger ; nearly all of them have 

 bitten themselves loose from harness and traces, and are re- 

 peatedly attacking the tent, where a small piece of boiled meat 

 is still kept. It would have been an uneven fight, had not 

 experience given them a respect for the whip which they know 

 that their beloved master has always ready to hand. They 

 have suffered through the snowstorm, but this would not have 

 meant much for a wolf-dog if recently they had not so often 

 been given flabby dog-flesh instead of real food. It is for this 

 reason that they are now so desperate and threatening, and they 

 would surely throw themselves over me if only they dared. 

 They express their suffering in very different ways. The nobler 

 natures amongst them are no longer greedy and offensive ; 

 their eyes have taken on a singular forsaken and melancholy 

 expression ; they keep away and seek the snow-bare patches of 

 ground, where they try to let the warmth of the sun ease the 

 pains of their empty stomachs. The plebeians amongst them, 

 on the contrary, have got an evil expression in their eyes ; they 

 lay siege to the tent and approach the entrance whenever they 

 think they can take me by surprise. 



Poor animals ! But what else can we do for them but to 

 walk ourselves half to death into the country on hunting tours 

 which last for days. We really do not save ourselves ! 



The day goes slowly, and I often seize myself in the belief 

 that my watch has stopped. In vain the ptarmigan try to 

 cackle some relief into the monotony. 



A couple are cackling to each other warmly and tenderly of 

 the nest which they are going to build. Their gurgling gut- 

 turals remind me of a bull-frog's croaking in the ponds of 

 Sealand. I forget where I am, and my thoughts go back to 

 the garden of my father's vicarage, where so often I have 

 listened to these remarkable frogs, whose clear, bell-like tones 

 from the deep mud of the pond could fill the air with harmony 

 in the cool Danish summer evenings. 



A mild breeze wafts the fragrance of the wild roses of the 

 cemetery wall towards me, and many old memories revive, so 



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