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ONCE upon a time there was a wicked old giant in Wales who, for some reason or other, had a very great spite against the Mayor of Shrewsbury and all his people, and he made up his mind to dam up the Severn, and by that means cause such a flood that the town would be drowned.

So off be set, carrying a spadeful of earth, and tramped along mile after mile trying to find the way to Shrewsbury. And how he missed it I cannot tell, but be must have gone wrong somewhere, for at last he got close to Wellington, and by. that time he was puffing and blowing under his heavy load, and wishing he was at the end of his journey. By-and-by there came a cobbler along the road with a sack of old boots and shoes on his back, for he lived at Wellington, and went once a fortnight to Shrewsbury to collect his customers' old boots and shoes, and take them home with him to mend. And the giant called out to him. "I say," he said, "how far is it to Shrewsbury?" "Shrewsbury," said the cobbler; "what do you want at Shrewsbury?" "Why," said the giant, "to fill up the Severn with this lump of earth I've got here. I've an old grudge against the Mayor and the folks at Shrewsbury, and now I mean to drown them out, and get rid of them all at once." "My  Word!" thought the cobbler, "this'll never do! I can't afford to lose my customers!" and he spoke up again. Eh!" he said, "you'll never get to Shrewsbury--not today, nor to-morrow. Why, look at me I I'm just come from Shrewsbury, and I've had time to wear out all these old boots and shoes on the road since I started." And be showed him his sack. "Oh!" said the giant, with a great groan, "then it's no use! I'm fairly tired out already, and I can't carry this load of mine any farther. I shall just drop it here and go back home." So he dropped the earth on the ground just where he stood, and scraped his boots on the spade, and off be went home again to Wales, and nobody ever heard anything of him in Shropshire after. But where he put down his load there stands the Wrekin to this day; and even the earth he scraped off his boots was such a pile that it made the little Ercall by the Wrekin's side.


1 Miss C. S. Burne, Shropshire Folk-Lore, p. 2.

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