En Klapjagt Paa Danske Fjelde. 171 



of hares, boys, birds, and dogs. Every- 

 one is happy, and securely seated with 

 his glass of lager of cool, cream-foamed 

 lager which trickles over the edge of the 

 mug, and mingles with the misty con- 

 densed moisture on the outside is telling 

 his neighbor confidentially just how it 

 was that he had the good luck to kill most 

 of the game bagged during the day. 



A smile born of light hearts and lighter 

 stomachs seems to flash across the room 

 when the dining-room bell gives the sig- 

 nal for the shuffling of heavy boots to 

 commence. The tables are creaking with 

 solid sections of brown, juicy, steaming 

 roasts, and piles of mealy potatoes envel- 

 oped in hot fog, and long white platters of 

 whole salmon through whose tender torn 

 skin the pink flakes and streaks of white 

 fat look all ready for the limpid golden 

 butter-sauce which stands in the brimming 

 full dishes near by. Tall handsome Dan- 

 ish girls are running hither and thither with 

 chicken soup for this man, and hare soup 

 for that man, and extricating order from 

 the chaos on the table with a marvellous 



