In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the holy wells of many Welsh and Shropshire wells degenerated into Wishing wells. They then lost their sacred character, and became centres of rural festivities. It is said that at Much Wenlock on "Holy Thursday," high revels were held formerly at St. Milburgha's well; that the young men after service in the church bore green branches round the town, and that they stopped at last before St. Milburgha's well. There, it is alleged, the young maidens threw in crooked pins and "wished" for sweethearts. Round the well, young men drank toasts in beer brewed from water collected from the church roof, whilst the women sipped sugar and water, and ate cakes. After many songs and much merriment, the day ended with games such as "Pop the Green Man down," "Sally Water," and "The Bull in the Ring," which games were followed by country dances, such as "The Merry Millers of Ludlow," "John, come and kiss me," "Tom Tizler," "Put on your smock o' Monday," and "Sellingers all." Such was the custom at Chirbury, at Churchstoke, and at many of the Hill wakes, and from lonely cottage and village hamlets the boys and girls gathered together, and danced and played in village and town. [Illustration: _Photo by Frith._ THE RED WALLED GARDEN.] After shopping in the town, I entered the little old red-walled garden where my annuals blossom in the lovely long June days. All looked sad and brown, and "packed by" for rest, as Burbidge calls it. I noticed, however, a few signs of returning life. The snowdrops had little green noses, which peered above the ground, and here and there the winter aconites had bubbled up into blossom. What funny little prim things they were with their bonnets of gold, and their frills of emerald green. I noted, also, that the "Mezeron-tree," as Bacon calls it, was budding. How sweet would be its fragrance a few weeks later, I thought, under the glow of a warm March sun. I passed along, and looked at a line of yellow crocuses. The most beautiful of all crocuses, veritable lamps of fire in a garden, are those known as the Cloth of Gold. The golden thread was full of promise, but as yet no blossom was expanded. How glorious they would be when they opened to the sunshine. There is indeed almost heat in their colour, it is so warm and splendid. [Sidenote: MANY-COLOURED STARLINGS FLIT]