164 En Klapjagt Paa Danske Fjelde. 



Hardly have our feet begun to crunch 

 the loose sand when a covey of twenty 

 partridges bursts out of the grass with an 

 explosive rush of wings, and spreading 

 their ruddy tails widely, and crying quirlp- 

 quirlp, quirlp-quirlp, in shrill, quail-like 

 tones, they lengthen out into a straggling 

 flock and head for the marsh. Poulsen, 

 who is nearest to the birds, coolly stops 

 one of them with each barrel, but Iversen, 

 who tries to kill the whole bevy at once, 

 fails to get any of it. Two men off on 

 the left pick out four passing birds, and 

 the rest of the partridges, after a rapid 

 flight of a few hundred yards, sail off on 

 curved wings and scatter singly among 

 the tussocks of grass. A bird which 

 stayed behind flies up almost at my feet 

 with a startling whirr, but he joins the 

 minor part of the flock. The scattered 

 patridges lie in a territory which belongs 

 to a distant part of our line. 



The sand knolls crossed, we reach the 

 marsh, but on we go through the sloppy 

 reeds and splashy grass holes as though 

 we were on a board floor. In goes little 



