In the twilight the little grassy strip wound in and out among the
heather, as if it were a path; but it was no path--no one must believe
it to be a path--for it led to the very brink of the great turf-pit.

The hare started up; it had heard a splash. It dashed off with long
leaps, as if mad; now contracted, with legs under body and back arched,
now drawn out to an incredible length, like a flying accordion, it
bounded away over the heather.

The fox put up its pointed nose, and stared in amazement after the hare.
It had not heard any splash. For, according to all the rules of art, it
had come creeping along the bottom of a deep ditch; and, as it was not
conscious of having made any mistake, it could not understand the
strange conduct of the hare.

Long it stood, with its head up, its hindquarters lowered, and its great
bushy tail hidden in the heather; and it began to wonder whether the
hares were getting wiser or the foxes getting more foolish.

But when the west wind had travelled a long way it became a north wind,
then an east wind, then a south wind, and at last it again came over the
sea as a west wind, dashed in upon the downs, and sighed long and
strangely among the dry clusters of heather. But then a pair of
wondering gray eyes were lacking in Krarup Kro, and a blue serge dress
that had grown too tight. And the innkeeper's wife whined and whimpered
more than ever. She could not understand it--nobody could understand
it--except Anders the post-boy--and one beside.

But when old folks wished to give the young a really serious admonition,
they used to begin thus: 'There was once in Krarup Kro a girl named