What an enchantingly beautiful thing the dew on the opening flowers of the dog-rose is, and how delicate are the red shades of the opening fronds of the bracken. Then I saw other treasures, none of which were more lovely than some pink cheeked oak-apples, encircled in the golden tassels of the oak blossom. Why does one not get up every morning? I said to myself. Why miss daily the enchantments of morning? The dew, the scents, and the sunshine were all delicious. I returned through the little town. Life was just beginning. Shops were opening. A few people drove past in noisy carts. Mothers were preparing their children to go to school. Men were going to work after their breakfasts, to the near fields, or in the shops; whilst whelp, and hound, and pup, were all gaily frolicking in the streets. [Sidenote: THE ROYAL OAK] I saw little friends go by. They laughed and bowed to me. Nearly all the little lads had got, I noticed, a sprig of oak leaves in their cap, for it was the 29th of May, Royal Oak Apple Day, as the folks call it; and some of them as they passed called out-- "Royal Oak I Whig provoke," and pointed to the badge in their caps. Shropshire is the land of loyalty, and people still cherish there the memory of the hiding of the King at Boscobel. The 29th of May is the anniversary of Charles II.'s Restoration, and the custom since then of wearing oak leaves on that day still lingers on in many counties. I read once a terrible story of two soldiers in George I.'s time who were nearly flogged to death in 1716 for putting oak sprigs in their hats. The Royal Oak, wrote Stukeley, "stood a bow shot from the house (of Boscobel). Into this tree, Colonel Carlos and the King climbed by the aid of a hen-roost ladder. Members of the family fed them by fastening the victuals to a nut hook. The tree is now enclosed with a brick wall in the inside of which are placed laurels. Close to the oak is a thriving plant reared from one of its acorns." The story runs that the King, in gratitude, collected some acorns at a later date from the oak which had afforded him a shelter, had them planted in St. James's Park, and watered them with his own hands. Are they still growing? I have often asked myself; or have they perished like the Stuart line and cause? Be this as it may, the custom of wearing the oak is still dear to Shropshire lads, and at Wenlock any lad "who will not mount the green" is considered fair game for other little lads to pummel and cuff. As I walked down Sheinton Street I noticed that three little boys came out of a house together. Suddenly a little lad passed them without the orthodox "tuft of green." With a wild whoop the little lads gave chase. "Bash and bummel him," they called. "Have at 'un."