Wayfarers are few on these upland byways, where the hill ponies are often the only signs of life, and no sound breaks the stillness save the whirr of a startled grouse, or the plaintive pipe of the curlew; 'there the winds sweep, and the plovers cry.' [Illustration: Church Stretton & the Longmynd.] Bright and exhilarating looks the Longmynd in its summer panoply of heather and golden gorse; and picturesque in the extreme when Autumn brings the 'whim berry' gatherers, with their camp-fires and steaming kettles, and merry shouts of children. But very different is the scene when this vast, unenclosed moorland falls under the stern sway of winter, and every landmark is obliterated by a mantle of untrodden snow. At times like these the Longmynd bears an eerie name, for lives not a few have been lost in attempting to traverse its trackless wastes, and places here and there bear ominous names such as Deadman's Hollow, Devil's Mouth, Deadman's Beach, and the like. Moreover the last fair of the year, held at Church Stretton on St. Andrew's day, has acquired the title of 'Deadman's Fair,' as men returning from it have been known to perish while endeavouring to reach their homes beyond the hills through the wild, mid-winter night. A remarkable if not unprecedented experience was that which befell the Rev. Donald Carr, the present rector of Woolstaston, who was lost in the snow upon Longmynd for a night and a day, in January, 1865. * * * * * Extending our rambles somewhat farther afield, a few minutes' run by train beneath the steep, wooded slopes of Caer Caradoc, brings us to Leebotwood, the first station Shrewsbury-wards on the railway. The village itself lies a quarter of a mile away, under a smooth green hill called the Lawley, but is worth a detour for the sake of its pretty thatched cottages, with their flowery garden plots and wealth of creepers, and its quaint oldfashioned inn yclept The Pound, which bears the date 1650, and does duty also as village post-office. Past Leebotwood church, a small stone edifice overarched by umbrageous beech trees, we push on along the dusty highway, which, gradually ascending, affords fine views over the countryside, and a glimpse of a round green 'tump' called Castle Hill, a prehistoric camp keeping ward over the ancient Portway, which extends hence along the brow of the Longmynd to Billing's Ring, near Bishop's Castle. [Illustration: Woolstaston Church, and Rectory.] A turn of the road reveals the village of Woolstaston, with its diminutive church overshadowed by three gigantic yew trees, and snug timbered rectory house, home of the Rev. Donald Carr, whose marvellous adventures, when snowed up on the Longmynd, have been recorded in an interesting little work entitled 'A Night in the Snow;' adventures which seem to confirm the old adage that 'truth is stranger than fiction.' [Illustration: Font at Woolstaston.]