174 En Klapjagt Paa Danske Fjelde. 



smoked in the midwinter icy blast in 

 Great South Bay, while the staunch sloop 

 plunged and strained at her anchor among 

 the rushing, voice-smothering, white- 

 capped waves, while the wind whistled 

 and hissed through the rigging, the boom 

 creaked and swung with every lurch, and 

 the heap of ducks exchanged places with 

 the bushel of oysters on the cabin floor. 

 While the thundering breakers on the 

 outer beach, furious in the easterly gale, 

 bellowed and groaned in hoarse monotone 

 between the reverberations from the tons 

 of black and whitening billows rolling in 

 mighty front high upon the sand bulwarks, 

 and dark night clouds, all ragged and torn, 

 drifted low and swiftly overhead. 



Every whiff of smoke from the pipe is 

 richly flavored with the essence of old 

 associations, but I am precipitated back 

 into Denmark as one of the party, a 

 gigantic, red faced, good-natured hunter, 

 mounts a platform at one end of the 

 dining-room, and prepares to auction off 

 our game for the benefit of the poor peo- 

 ple of the village. This is a customary 



