s across his fat back. He
had ventured out of the fox-earths on the other side of the park
palings, and did not know how to get back to his anxious mother. I tried
to catch him, but that was not to be, and young Reineke soon found a way
home. Nevertheless, the joy was mine, never to be forgotten, of having
seen a real wild beast so near.

Even on dark and stormy days the park has its own strange charm as one
walks up the gloomy avenue on the soft fir-needles glistening with rain.
A murmur fills the air as of sea-waves beating on the shore: it is the
wet south-west wind soughing overhead and lashing the writhing branches.
One thinks of the German fairy-tales, and half expects to meet the old
woman who led Hansel and Grethel captive, or to come suddenly upon her
house with its ginger-bread roof and barley-sugar windows.

I remember once taking a well-known musician through those fir woods one
dark afternoon as the wind was making soft music above us. He was
silent, and I was disappointed, for I had fancied that the new country
would delight him and excite his imagination. But when we reached home
he sat down to the piano in the dark, and played on and on as if he were
pouring out his whole soul in the flood of sweet melody; and when, after
an hour of marvellous improvisation, he stopped and said to us, "I
couldn't help it: I had to reel off all that I have been seeing and
hearing this afternoon," then I was content, for I knew nothing had been
thrown away on our friend, and that if he could not talk about it all he
could do even better.

But if you would see Bramshill in all its pride come on some November
morning to the first meet of the season.

Well do I recollect the excitement of those happy days. How long the
night seemed before morning broke and I was sure it was not pouring with
rain! How pleasant to run down to breakfast all neat and trim in one's
habit! And then when flask and sandwiches were safely bestowed, white
gloves buttoned and hat firmly secured, how eagerly I watched for
half-past ten to walk out to the stables, where the horses were stamping
and snorting impatiently, knowing full well by their marvellous instinct
what enjoyment was before them! Then my little bay Sintram came dancing
out, followed by Puff, the dear old brown mare. I was tossed into the
saddle, and away we went at that peculiarly unpleasant and tiring pace,
a "cover trot," which for some inscrutable reason is the right thing if
you