1 62 En Klapjagt Paa Danske Fjelde. 



toward the heavens and winnows the air 

 finer than ever with his stout whistling 

 pinions. Hardly has the smoke stopped 

 sifting through the poplar sprouts ahead 

 before a pair of pretty little blue doves 

 dart past like arrows. One, two, three 

 shots and one dove is down ; four, five, 

 six, seven shots and the second one 

 tumbles into the clover. How smooth 

 their feathers are, and what delicately 

 moulded heads and dainty red feet they 

 have ! 



" Smukke dove ! Saa lille og nydelig," 

 says big Waldemar, as he brings one in 

 in his hand. 



It does n't take long for the sun to 

 reach the noon-mark in Danish November, 

 and it gets there before one really feels 

 that Phoebus dare stand up straight. A 

 wagon which has been following us slowly 

 through the meadows now drives up and 

 the hunters and boys brush each others' 

 ears with their elbows as they help them- 

 selves to the cheese and beer and boiled 

 eggs, and other luxuries which the wagon 

 contains. 



