MOGENS


SUMMER it was; in the middle of the day; in a corner of the enclosure.
Immediately in front of it stood an old oaktree, of whose trunk one
might say, that it agonized in despair because of the lack of harmony
between its fresh yellowish foliage and its black and gnarled
branches; they resembled most of all grossly misdrawn old gothic
arabesques. Behind the oak was a luxuriant thicket of hazel with dark
sheenless leaves, which were so dense, that neither trunk nor branches
could be seen. Above the hazel rose two straight, joyous maple-trees
with gayly indented leaves, red stems and long dangling clusters of
green fruit. Behind the maples came the forest--a green evenly rounded
slope, where birds went out and in as elves in a grasshill.

All this you could see if you came wandering along the path through
the fields beyond the fence. If, however, you were lying in the shadow
of the oak with your back against the trunk and looking the other
way--and there was a some one, who did that--then you would see first
your own legs, then a little spot of short, vigorous grass, next a
large cluster of dark nettles, then the hedge of thorn with the big,
white convolvulus, the stile, a little of the ryefield outside,
finally the councilor's flagpole on the hill, and then the sky.

It was stifling hot, the air was quivering with heat, and then it was
very quiet; the leaves were hanging from the trees as if asleep.
Nothing moved except the lady-birds and the nettles and a few withered
leaves that lay on the grass and rolled themselves up with sudden