70 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
Except for the dampness which comes on 
foggy, unfair days, or for the slush which a fall of 
snow brings, it is a joy to them all the year 
round. Mother Nature, it has been said, loves 
loyal admirers, not mere fair-weather friends, 
who gush over the joys of spring and early 
summer, and then bemoan dark days. She is 
credited with a deep affection for those who, with 
the seeing eye, perceive also her autumn tints, 
the wonders of a late October, and for those who 
do not forsake her even in winter and can see 
with joy during the short hours of sunshine the 
dazzling lines of a range of hills, such as Stiper- 
stones or Longmynd under the snow. When 
can you see so sharply defined, as on a clear 
winter day, the gnarled boughs of a trusty old 
oak or the delicate traceries of elm or silver 
birch ? 
Shropshire folk have an abiding love for their 
historic shire. Meredith has put into words for 
Salopians something of what they feel on return- 
ing to their country after much wandering, and 
passing through the old familiar fields in summer- 
time, when he wrote of a scene elsewhere :— 
“ Joy thus to revel in the grass of our beloved country ; 
Revel all day till the lark mounts at eve with his sweet tirra- 
lirra + 
Thrilling delightfully.” 
The Severn is still reckoned a great salmon 
river though it yields little sport to the rod. 
Time was when good bags of trout were 
registered ; now, you have to work hard—in 
