EN KLAPJAGT PAA DANSKE 

 FJELDE. 



THE gray haze of a November morn- 

 ing made a monochrome with the 

 gray walls and paved streets of Denmark's 

 capital, as Dr. Warming and I with our 

 guns and canvas suits and big boots, 

 stepped into our carriage in Vesterbro- 

 gade and rattled off past the early milk- 

 man with his bumping, thumping cans, 

 and past the homeward-bound gambler, 

 who was damp and limp from long ex- 

 posure to night air. 



Uncas, the setter, we had left whining 

 and barking and pawing at the door, and 

 my heart went out in pity for the poor 

 fellow as my mind reverted to earlier days 

 and a little red school-house beneath the 

 butternut trees in a small Connecticut 

 village. A loose clap-boarded, lichen- 



