upon the rural simplicity which is the charm of the place.

Church Stretton has one main street and not much else. Looked at from a little distance, it is simply a grey square tower-the church tower- a cluster of red roofs, a thick belt of wood and a high background of turf-covered hills. These hills, which are close to the village and west of it, form what is called the Long Mynd; across a narrow valley to the southeast is another range known as the Caradoc. The Long Mynd is some 1,700 feet high, the Caradoc is about 1,200.

Even at noon the village seems to be asleep. Hardly a sound reaches the ear except the drowsy crowing of a cock and the chiming of the quarters by a silvery bell in the grey church tower. The people move about so slowly and have such an air of repose about them, that by the time we have been there an hour or two, we begin to be ashamed of our comparatively hurried gait, and try to tone down our motions to that sleepiness which we associate with a certain scene in 'Rip Van Winkle.' Passing through the churchyard and round by the Rectory-which is hidden in magnificent timber-we come into a steep lane that leads towards the hills. Here we find all the wealth of summer. The hedges are high and

thickly set with well-grown hollies: the limes are in their fullest leafage, and are also in flower. Along the banks we gather the two forget-me-nots-that which grows on the dry soil and that which frequents the wet ditch; two species of herb-robert, the woodruff, smelling like new-mown hay and bearing its little white diamond-like flower; the three stellarias; the fox-glove, already grown to a stately height; the woodbine, profuse with its odour; and the wild rose, reticent both of its colour and its smell, but none the less delicious on that account. Higher up, when we come upon the hill-side, we find the eyebright and the bird's-foot. Here we look down upon a green hollow, through which a clear stream meanders. Before us is a narrowing valley, formed by curiously shaped and overlapping hills. Following the path for a couple of miles, and passing an old water-driven mill, we come into a wild and narrow gorge, where there is a little fall, locally known as the 'Light Spout.' Here the rock breaks through the turf, and the green is made more vivid by contrast with dark masses of heath. We climb up by the fall and on to the top of the hill; and there, at the height of a thousand feet, we find the mountain pansy, growing thickly among the pasture. It is a lonely scene but very lovely as we look upon it, under a sky

I

clouded, but sometimes breaking into blue. When we get back to the village the night is setting in, and the course of life there is quieter than ever. It seems, indeed, as if it would cease altogether if it were not for the silvery bell in the grey tower which goes on chiming the quarters.

The next day is Sunday. The morning is cloudless, but cool and sweet, the wind having got round to the north. The first sound we hear is that which has now become to us the voice of Church Strettonthe grey tower chiming the quarters. At eight o'clock a peal is rung, soft and unobtrusive. When we get into the churchyard the old clerk is locking the doors after an early service. We wander about among the graves, and remember how near we are to the Welsh Border as we read the names engraven on the stones-Evans, Lloyd, Gwynn, and, in one case, 'Henry and Mary Tudor.'

At church-time we are returning from a short stroll among the hills and pause at a point where we overlook the village. We are listening to the mellow bleating of the sheep in the distant folds, when the bells in the grey tower begin once more, and slowly we discover that now the ringers are skilfully running over the notes of a sweet and familiar hymn-the Quam Dilecta of Bishop Jenner. We descend and

join the quiet company which is slowly passing between the graves and through the Norman doorway, with the words of old George Herbert on our lips :

O Day most calm, most bright,
The fruit of this, the next world's bud,
Th' indorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a friend, and with his bloud;
The couch of time; care's balm and bay:
The week were dark but for thy light:

Thy torch doth show the way.

In the evening we crossed the valley and ascended Caradoc. The way ran by deep lanes and through field-paths. All the flowers were there again, but the most frequent were the honeysuckle and the rose. When we had climbed six hundred feet up the hill, so deep was the silence that we heard, as we stood and paused for breath, the cuckoo calling from a wood down in the valley and at least a mile away. On the summit we found, more plainly marked than we expected, the ancient camp of Caractacus--Caer Caradoc. Round the grim rocks and over the oldworld ramparts we saw the swift, or black-marten, darting about in great numbers. Were their nests built at that great height-twelve hundred feet above the sea-or had they come up from the valley in search of food?

After seeing the sun dip below the great plain, out of which rose the Wrekin, we descended rapidly: and,

Turn

as we skirted the bottom of the hill in the deepening
twilight, suddenly we heard the cuckoo again. This
time he was close by, and on the open ground.
ing suddenly round, we saw him rise and fly into a
deep wood. It was now nine o'clock, but yet his song
was not over. Again and again we heard his myste-
rious cry issue from the dark retreat into which we
had seen him enter. There was a fascination about it,
and we lingered until we were sure that his voice would
be heard no more. We had been fortunate enough to
catch sight of the strange creature-strange in his
habits and his history-and could not say with
Wordsworth-

O Cuckoo shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?—
Still longed for, never seen.

We bade him good-night, therefore, with this one charming stanza of an almost forgotten poet :

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

The lights were being extinguished as we got back into Church Stretton, and the silvery chime from the grey tower, announcing ten o'clock, seemed to ripple along the street and up and down all the leafy alleys of the village.