That they were farmers, not nomads, is
proved by the clear impression of grains of wheat and barley in
their burial urns. The seeds strayed into the clay and were burned
away, but the impression abides, and tells the story.
Clear down to historic times there was a thrifty population in many
of the now barren spots. But a change was slowly creeping over the
landscape. The country was torn by long and bloody wars. The big men
fought for the land and the little ones paid the score, as they
always do. They were hunted from house and home. Next the wild
hordes of the Holstein counts overran Jutland. Its towns were
burned, the country laid waste. Great fires swept the forests. What
ravaging armies had left was burned in the smelteries. In the sandy
crust of the heath there is iron, and swords and spears were the
grim need of that day. The smelteries are only names now. They
went, but they took the forests with them, and where the ground was
cleared the west wind broke through, and ruin followed fast. Last of
all came the Black Death, and set its seal of desolation upon it
all. When it had passed, the country was a huge graveyard. The heath
had moved in. Rovers and smugglers found refuge there; honest folk
shunned it. Under the heather the old landmarks are sometimes found
yet, and deep ruts made by wheels that long since ceased to turn.
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