En Klapjagt Paa Danske Fjelde. 163 



A small ravine, on the grassy banks of 

 which Vikings probably sat on grasshop- 

 pers and sharp stones just as we do 

 to-day, runs through the fields near 

 our halting place. We pull the crooked, 

 stiff hares out straight, smooth their 

 fur, and lay them in heaps by our sides. 

 We toss lunch tidbits to the dogs, light 

 pipes and cigars, kick our heels into 

 the sod, throw egg-shells at the boys, 

 and joke and laugh until the uneasy 

 members of the party suggest that we be 

 off again. The dogs notice the first 

 movement, and in exuberant spirits leap 

 over their masters, and over each other, 

 and bark in good plain English. This time 

 the line of march extends down towards 

 the sea. More hares spring up and die, 

 ephemerally. Another short-eared owl 

 and another pair of doves find that our 

 influence was more reaching than they had 

 thought. We are approaching a series of 

 sand knolls which are covered with tall, 

 dry, sparsely growing grass. The clap- 

 pers remain quiet. A word of caution is 

 passed along the line. 



