FISHING AT BRAMSHILL. 189 



the year. It was here that the poor girl playing 

 hide and seek one Christmas Eve got lost and 

 smothered in the old oak muniment chest, this 

 incident forming the theme of the old song, "The 

 Mistletoe Bough." 



The ground at the rear of this fine old mansion 

 drops by a succession of very wide terraces cut into 

 the side of the hill ; on each are the remains of 

 what were evidently fish-ponds, ruinous now, dis- 

 mantled, and nearly dry, with large trees and tall 

 bushes growing, where fish were once "in stew," 

 providing food or sport for the inmates of and 

 visitors to the mansion. 



The park, of large extent, is very beautiful, 

 because of its exceeding wildness. It seems to 

 have remained uncultured for a century. The 

 undergrowth has in many places overrun wide 

 gravel drives ; ferns usurp the trim parterres of 

 former days, and grow profuse on the once well- 

 trimmed lawns ; laurels and rhododendrons flourish 

 luxuriantly, attaining huge dimensions ; and they 

 again are overgrown with brambles, woodbine and 

 honeysuckles, in dense tangles and thickets, form- 

 ing safe retreats for the rabbits, which on fine 

 evenings dot the lawns all round about. 



Among the lofty fir-trees and giant oaks and 

 elms, wood pigeons nest and breed ; while cock 

 pheasants and their hens strut about in undis- 

 turbed security, save when a fox now and then 

 levies toll ; for there are fox-earths about the 

 neighbourhood, as any one would expect in so wild 

 a jungle ; stoats and weasels are not unknown, but 

 on the contrary are frequently seen, as they run 

 and twist in and out the thick undergrowths. The 

 badger also is occasionally met with by wayfarers 



