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Chap. XXII.
RETURN TO MARIENLYST.
343
høi, where the poet of that name once sat inspired. I
know nothing about him, but understand him to be very
fine and a favourite; he died, as poets do, early in life.
Our stuhlwagen waits; a fine pair of Jutland horses,
new to harness, carry us off along the Strandvei at a
rattling pace. We pass Sophienberg—what remains of
it, a one-storied wing. The nightingales answer each
other in the beeches; we stop to listen; the croaking
of the frogs overpowers their notes. A huge fox, with
such a brush, runs across in direction of a farmhouse
hard by—give a “View halloo!” if you will: no use,
he doesn’t understand you. “ Gare mes oies! ” We
pass by Rostgaard and its bees, now asleep—queen,
drones, and all; Egebæksvang, the pretty Dahlsborg,
where lodgings may be had, adjoining the wood, in
summer season,—Bois de Boulogne of Elsinorers; the
black cross, “where many sailors have found rest,”
cast up drowned on the coast. A new proprietor dared
to disturb their allotted cemetery; scarce had the
plough cut the first sod, when a fit of apoplexy removed
him from this life. On, on! it has struck eleven by
Kronborg time, and was past midnight before we gained
Marienlyst.
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