with narrow entrances.  There are barren, perpendicular precipices, and soft, leaf-clad inclines.  There are small points, and small inlets, and small rolling stones that are rattlingly washed up and down with every dashing breaker.  There are majestic cliff-arches that project over the water.  There are sharp stones that are constantly sprayed by a white foam; and others that mirror themselves in unchangeable dark-green still water.  There are giant troll-caverns shaped in the rock, and great crevices that lure the wanderer to venture into the mountain’s depths—­all the way to Kullman’s Hollow.

And over and around all these cliffs and rocks crawl entangled tendrils and weeds.  Trees grow there also, but the wind’s power is so great that trees have to transform themselves into clinging vines, that they may get a firm hold on the steep precipices.  The oaks creep along on the ground, while their foliage hangs over them like a low ceiling; and long-limbed beeches stand in the ravines like great leaf-tents.

These remarkable mountain walls, with the blue sea beneath them, and the clear penetrating air above them, is what makes Kullaberg so dear to the people that great crowds of them haunt the place every day as long as the summer lasts.  But it is more difficult to tell what it is that makes it so attractive to animals, that every year they gather there for a big play-meeting.  This is a custom that has been observed since time immemorial; and one should have been there when the first sea-wave was dashed into foam against the shore, to be able to explain just why Kullaberg was chosen as a rendezvous, in preference to all other places.

When the meeting is to take place, the stags and roebucks and hares and foxes and all the other four-footers make the journey to Kullaberg the night before, so as not to be observed by the human beings.  Just before sunrise they all march up to the playground, which is a heather-heath on the left side of the road, and not very far from the mountain’s most extreme point.  The playground is inclosed on all sides by round knolls, which conceal it from any and all who do not happen to come right upon it.  And in the month of March it is not at all likely that any pedestrians will stray off up there.  All the strangers who usually stroll around on the rocks, and clamber up the mountain’s sides the fall storms have driven away these many months past.  And the lighthouse keeper out there on the point; the old fru on the mountain farm, and the mountain peasant and his house-folk go their accustomed ways, and do not run about on the desolate heather-fields.

When the four-footers have arrived on the playground, they take their places on the round knolls.  Each animal family keeps to itself, although it is understood that, on a day like this, universal peace reigns, and no one need fear attack.  On this day a little hare might wander over to the foxes’ hill, without losing as much as one of his long ears.  But still the animals arrange themselves into separate groups.  This is an old custom.