But in this busy world day-dreams must make way for the things that make the day count, castles in the air to homes upon the soil.  The heath had known such in the dim past.  It had not always been a desert.  The numberless cairns that lie scattered over it, sometimes strung out for miles as if marking the highways of the ancients, which they doubtless do, sometimes grouped where their villages stood, bear witness to it.  Great battles account for their share, and some of them were fought in historic times.  On Grathe Heath the young King Valdemar overcame his treacherous rival Svend.  Alone and hunted, the beaten man sought refuge, Saxo tells us, behind a stump, where he was found and slain by one of the King’s axemen.  A chapel was built on the spot.  More than seven centuries later (in 1892) they dug there, and found the bones of a man with skull split in two.

The stump behind which the wretched Svend hid was probably the last representative of great forests that grew where now is sterile moor.  In the bogs trunks of oak and fir are found lying as they fell centuries ago.  The local names preserve the tradition, with here and there patches of scrub oak that hug the ground close, to escape the blast from the North Sea.  There is one such thicket near the hamlet of Taulund—­the name itself tells of long-forgotten groves—­and the story runs among the people yet that once squirrels jumped from tree to tree without touching ground all the way from Taulund to Gjellerup church, a stretch of more than five miles to which the wild things of the woods have long been strangers.  In the shelter of the old forests men dwelt through ages, and made the land yield them a living.  Some cairns that have been explored span over more than a thousand years.  They were built in the stone age, and served the people of the bronze and iron ages successively as burial-places, doubtless the same tribes who thus occupied their homesteads from generation to generation.  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.