h lay by the wild moor in
Wendsyssel; that is to say, if we are to speak out of the abundance of
our knowledge, hard by the great moor in the circle of Hjoerring, high
up by the Skagen, the northern point of Jutland. The wilderness there
is still a great wide moor-heath, about which we can read in the
official description of districts. It is said that in old times there
was here a sea, whose bottom was upheaved; now the moorland extends
for miles on all sides, surrounded by damp meadows, and unsteady
shaking swamp, and turfy moor, with blueberries and stunted trees.
Mists are almost always hovering over this region, which seventy years
ago was still inhabited by wolves. It is certainly rightly called the
"wild moor;" and one can easily think how dreary and lonely it must
have been, and how much marsh and lake there was here a thousand years
ago. Yes, in detail, exactly the same things were seen then that may
yet be beheld. The reeds had the same height, and bore the same kind
of long leaves and bluish-brown feathery plumes that they bear now;
the birch stood there, with its white bark and its fine
loosely-hanging leaves, just as now; and as regards the living
creatures that dwelt here--why, the fly wore its gauzy dress of the
same cut that it wears now; and the favourite colours of the stork
were white picked out with black, and red stockings. The people
certainly wore coats of a different cut to those they now wear; but
whoever stepped out on the shaking moorland, be he huntsman or
follower, master or servant, met with the same fate a thousand years
ago that he would meet with to-day. He sank and went down to the
"marsh king," as they called him, who ruled below in the great
moorland empire. They also called him "gungel king;" but we like the
name "marsh king" better, and by that we'll call him, as the storks
did. Very little is known of the marsh king's rule; but perhaps that
is a good thing.

In the neighbourhood of the moorland, hard by the great arm of the
German Ocean and the Cattegat, which is called the Luemfjorden, lay the
wooden house of the Viking, with its stone water-tight cellars, with
its tower and its three projecting stories. On the roof the stork had
built his nest; and stork-mamma there hatched the eggs, and felt sure
that her hatching would come to something.

One evening stork-papa stayed out very long; and when he came home he
looked very bustling and important.

"I've something very terrible t