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Chap. XXXIV.
“STONEHENGE.”
society of human kind* He now flies away back with
the produce of his chase to his mate and young
ones, and we continue our journey. As we pass near a
country house the scarlet postilion points to behind the
road, “ Stonehengeand there as sure as fate stands a
lofty dolmen—Stonehenges, as the peasants call them
in these parts. He talks to his horses, too: one he
terms “ ole ors,” the companion “ mare,”—hoppe is the
correct word—just like a British ostler.
We were charged for four glasses of “ toddie ” in our
moderate Mariager bill—brandy and water taken on
our first arrival half perished with dew (dug),
pronounced like our own by the postilion, after our nocturnal
wanderings among the moses. Such a night as he’d
passed—“ Sicken a one he’d never kenned.” All of
which makes me half imagine myself somewhere in
the provinces of old England.
We reach Hadsund ferry; boats of course on
opposite side, and no man visible. Tu whu, tu whu!
sounds the postilion, like some stranger at the
castlewarden’s gate. No answer from the ferry-house, a
building, had it only an extra story added to it, as big
as a mansion in Belgrave-square. At last two lazy men
appear: we sit like Patience and admire the opposite
chateau of Dalsgaard, embedded among the trees, and
pluck nosegays of white orchises. The boat arrives at
last, and we get over to the other side ; half an hour’s
time after quitting the ferry-house we bid adieu to all
beauty, and enter on one of those wide-extending myste-
* It is a curious fact that, although these birds breed every year, no
one can tell what becomes of the young ones; the number of nests
never increases.
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