En Klapjagt Paa Danske Fjelde. 169 



hair brush, which has spanked some boy 

 too hard. 



It is time to go. As I step to the stone 

 threshold, the lord of the manor extends 

 a hand like the hand of Providence, and 

 engulfing my own in a maelstrom of fin- 

 gers, he works my arm up and down in 

 the same manner as he does an eight-foot 

 pump-handle out in the court. I escape 

 in fairly good condition, however, and 

 amid profuse good-byes we go out through 

 the big gate and into the field of tall, curly- 

 leaved green cabbage to join the straggling 

 hunters who are preparing a line for one 

 more trip across the fields. 



All is ready, and together we advance 

 in imposing array, each man anxious to 

 add just a little more game to his list. 

 Every few minutes a big hare makes a 

 sudden spurt, and tries to kick the world 

 around faster on its axis, but he is stopped 

 in time to save the time of day. A flock 

 of partridges make the trembling dry 

 grass wave in little swirls, as the birds, 

 with a mighty spring, launch out into the 

 air right near us. Glass-ball shooters 



