pproach and a new artistic prose.
There is scarcely a writer in these countries, since 1880, with any
pretension toward literary expression who has not directly or indirectly
come under Jacobsen's influence.

O. F. THEIS.

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 little jerks
as if they were shrinking from the sunbeams.

And then the man underneath the oak; he lay there gasping for air and
with a melancholy look stared helplessly towards the sky. He tried to
hum a tune, but gave it up; whistled, then gave that up too; turned
round, turned round again and let his eyes rest upon an old mole-hill,
that had become quite gray in the drought. Suddenly a small dark spot
appeared upon the light-gray mold, another, three, four, many, still
more, the entire mole-hill suddenly was quite dark-gray. The air was
filled with nothing but long, dark streaks, the leaves nodded and swayed
and there rose a murmur which turned int