Near the west end of Ansbjerg wood there is an open space, consisting of an extensive green, entirely surrounded by old venerable beeches. Annually, on the first afternoon of Whitsuntide, the greater part of the inhabitants of the neighbouring parishes are accustomed to assemble at this spot. On that day many houses stand empty, and in many are left only the blind and the bed-ridden; for the halt and crippled, provided they lack not the sense of seeing, must once a-year enjoy themselves amid the new fresh verdure, and--like Noah's dove--bring home a bright green beechen bough to their dusky dwellings. What joy! what shoals! The Horse-Garden--so is this trysting-place named--at this time resembles a bee-hive; incessant bustle, endless pressing backwards and forwards, in and out: every soul bent only on sucking in the honey of joyousness, and imbibing the exhilarating summer air. How they hasten, how they flutter from flower to flower! greet, meet, separate, familiarly, gaily and hastily! How many a young swain brings or finds here the lady of his heart! At a considerable distance from the hive may be heard its ceaseless hum and tumult. The nearer you approach, the more varied is the joyous uproar. The monotonous hum resolves itself into shout, song, and laughter, rattling of leaves, sound of fiddles and flutes. Swarms pour in and out on every side of the green wood. The lower orders in their Sunday garments, the higher classes in elegant summer attire, cavaliers in black, ladies in white. "Is there dancing here?" "Oh, yes, here is a forest ball, a dance on the elastic greensward." "Do you see that village fiddler by the large beech yonder, towering high above the surrounding multitude? Do you see how rapidly his bow dances up and down amid hats adorned with flowers? And there is a regular country dance, a real Scottish!" "Am I in the Deer-park, in Charlottenlund?"[17] you will ask. "See what a number of carriages, elegant equipages, coachmen in livery, horses with plated harness, tents with cold meat and confectionery, coffee-pots on the fire, families reclining on the grass around a basket of eatables!" You are in the Horse-Garden. This is Whitsuntide's evening in Lysgaard district,--the beauteous Nature's homage-day. Thus is this holiday celebrated till the sun goes down; but formerly it was only the common people of two or three neighbouring parishes that assembled here, though this innocent merry-making is, without doubt, an ancient custom, as old as the wood itself. Ten years after the events related in the foregoing chapters had taken place, the summer festival was, as usual, held in the Horse-Garden. A man from whose grandson I in my young days heard the story, gave the following account of it:--