unfortunately some wonderful bargains caught her eye, and it did seem to
her sinful to go away without taking a glance at them when she might never
have such a chance again. So she lingered by the stalls, and wandered up
and down having a good look at everything, when whom should she see doing
the very same thing but Tom Trenance!
He did not see Joan, so she thought she would go up and speak to him, and
ask if he was going home soon, for it would be nice to have his company on
the way. He was so busy, though, darting about from stall to stall, that
Joan could never get up to him. But she could see what he was doing, and
the sight made Joan's blood boil with indignation! He was helping himself
to everything that took his fancy! Yarn, stockings, boots, spoons,
clothing, until the wonder was that he could manage to stow the things
away.
The oddest part of all, though, was that nobody seemed to see him.
Joan looked again and again to make sure she was not dreaming, but no, he
was there right enough, and pocketing things as fast as he could, right
under the stall-keepers' very noses, and they paying no heed whatever to
him!
Joan could bear it no longer! She could not stand by and see such
wickedness going on; it made her blood boil with indignation. So over she
bustled and touched him on the arm.
"Tom Trenance," she cried, "I'm downright ashamed of 'ee! I wonder you
ain't above carrying on such dishonest ways, and you with children to set
an example to! I didn't think you capable of such wickedness."
Tom for a minute looked, and was too much taken aback to speak. But he
quickly recovered himself. "Why, Joan," he said, taking no notice of her
accusations, "I take it very kind and neighbourly of 'ee to come up and
speak. What sharp eyes you've got! Now which of them did you 'appen to
catch sight of me with?"
"Which? Why, both, of course," cried Joan, but she put up her hand first
over one and then over the other, and found she could only see Tom with
the right one. "Why, no, I can't see 'ee with both," she cried in
astonishment. "The left one don't seem to be a bit of good!"
"The right one is it?" said Tom, and his look went through her like a
gimlet. Then, pointing his finger at it, he muttered:--
"Thou wicked old spy--
Thou shalt no more see me,
Nor peep nor pry
With that charmed eye."
And at that very moment a sharp pain shot through her right eye. It was
so sharp that she screamed aloud, and from that moment she never could see
with it again.
Yelling, and pressing her fist into her throbbing eyeball, she rushed
hither and thither, calling to people to come and help her, and to go and
catch Tom Trenance, all in one breath; but as they could not see Tom,--nor
could she, either, now,--they unkindly said the poor soul was crazy,
which, of course, was most unjust and cruel of them, and shows what
mistakes people can make.
Of course, it was the Fairy Ointment on her eye which enabled her to see
so much, and it was that same ointment which rendered Tom Trenance
invisible to everyone but to her.
How poor Joan ever found her way back to Market Jew Street again she never
could tell, but when she did arrive there she had, of course, to stay a
little while and tell her sad story, so that it was really quite late and
dark before she started for home; and then, what with the darkness and her
blindness she could only crawl along. She groped her way painfully down
Voundervoor and over the Green, stumbling over the ruts and sandy banks
until she was very nearly driven crazy. Through only being able to see
with her left eye, she kept bearing away to the left side of the road, and
I cannot tell you how many times she fell into the ditch, marketing and
all! And so afraid was she of falling into the sea, and so close did she
keep to the other side of the road away from it, that at last she went
right through the hedge and fell over into a place called
'Park-an-Shebbar!'
Luckily one of the farm-boys was in the field, and helped her up and
picked up her parcels for her; then, seeing how bad she was, he took her
into the house to rest and recover, for she seemed quite dazed by that
time. There they gave her something to bring her round, and presently she
began to feel better and able to go on again.
By this time she was very anxious to get home, so the lad helped her over
the stream and set her on the right road once more. This time Joan
stepped out briskly, for she was really very troubled about the Squire's
supper, and all the people who were expected to it. If she did not get
home soon, they would have arrived first, and, oh, how angry the Squire
would be!
By the time, though, that she got to the top of Paul Hill, she was so
tired she felt she could not go another step without a rest, so, though
she could badly spare the time, she dropped with a sigh of relief on to a
soft green spot, when, oh! what a shriek she gave! for the soft green spot
was a duck-pond covered with duck-weed! How she got out of the pond she
could never tell, but she did and crept over to the other side of the
road, where she fell back on the hedge quite exhausted.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" she moaned, "I'm nearly dead. Oh, if only I'd got our
old Dumpling here to give me a lift; or any other quiet old horse I'd be
thankful for. I shall never reach home to-night on my two feet, I'm sure,
they are ready to drop off already!"
Barely had she uttered her wish when there by the roadside stood an old
white horse, cropping quietly away at the brambles and dead ferns.
How he came there I can't tell you. Whether he had been there all the
time without her seeing him, or whether he came by magic, no one can say,
but there he was.
Many persons in Dame Joan's place would have been afraid to mount him,
fearing witchcraft, or fairies' pranks, but Joan was too tired to have
many scruples. So up she got and untied his feet, for he was hobbled, put
the rope round his head, and then managed somehow to clamber up on his
back, basket and all. It was hard work, but she got settled after a bit,
then picking up the rope, called to him to start.
"Gee wug! gee wo!" she called, "get up, you lazy old faggot!" and she
hammered away at his side with her heels with all her might--and her shoes
were none of the daintiest! but in spite of her coaxings and her threats,
her kicks and her thumps, the old horse did not move an inch.
"Come up, can't you! Gee wug, come here!" She beat him and kicked him
again until she was really too tired to move hand or foot; then, when she
had given up in despair, the tiresome creature made a start. But such a
start! he went at a slow snail's pace, and try as Joan would she could not
make him go faster.
At last, though, when she reached the top of a hill, there came from the
valley below the cry of hounds, devil's hounds they must have been, for no
others would be out at that time of night. As soon as the sounds reached
the old horse's ears, he pricked them up, whinnied loudly, and with a toss
of his head and a fling of his tail started away like any young colt.
Away, away, uphill and downhill they tore as fast as the wind. Joan clung
to the horse's mane with both hands, and yelled and yelled to him to stop.
She might as well, though, have held her breath. All her marketing flew
out of her basket, her precious beaver hat was carried away, her shawl was
whisked off her back! On and on the old horse tore, jumping over
everything that came in his way, until Joan was nearly flung from his
back. Presently, too, to her horror she saw that the creature was
growing bigger and bigger, and higher and higher; soon he shot up above
the trees, then he was as high as the church tower. Poor Joan, perched on
his back, grew sick, giddy, and terrified. She was afraid now to slip off
lest she should be dashed to pieces, and was afraid to stay there lest she
should fall off.
For miles and miles they travelled like this, until at last they came to
Toldave Moor, on the further side of which there was, Joan knew, a deep
black pool, and for this pool, to Joan's horror, the monster galloped
straight!
"If I don't slip off now, I shall surely be drowned outright!" thought
poor Joan, for the pond was deep, she felt her powers were failing her;
her hands were numb, her limbs cramped. She knew she could not swim.
"Better a dry death than a wet one, it will save my clothes, anyway!"
So, letting go her hold of the creature's mane, she was about to let
herself slide down, when the wind caught her and carried her right off the
horse's back. They were going at a terrific rate, and the wind was very
keen on the moor; it lifted her right up in the air, high above the horse,
and then, just as she thought she was going to disappear through the
clouds, she was dropped plump into the rushes by the edge of the very pool
itself.
At the same moment the air became filled with the most awful clamour, such
yells and cries, and terrible laughter as no living being had ever heard
before. Poor old Joan thought her last hour had really come, and gave
herself up for lost, for when she looked round she saw the fearful great
creature she had been riding, disappearing in the distance in flames of
fire, and tearing after it, helter-skelter, pell-mell, was a horrible crew
of men and dogs and horses. Two or three hundred of them there must have
been, and not one of the lot had a head on his shoulders.
Joan would have screamed, too, if she had not been stricken dumb with
fright; so, very nearly scared to death, trembling with cold and fear,
there she lay until they had disappeared.
How she scrambled out of her soft, damp resting-place she could never
tell, but she did, somehow, and got as far as Trove Bottom, though without
any shoes, for they had come off in the ditch. Her shawl was gone, too,
and all her marketing, and, worst of all, her precious broad-brimmed
beaver hat.
There was a linhay down at the Bottom, where Squire Lovell kept a lot of
sheep, and into that Joan crept, and lay down, and from sheer exhaustion
fell asleep and slept till morning. How much longer she would have slept
no one knows, but on Sunday mornings it was the Squire's habit to go down
and look over his sheep, and on this Sunday, though it was Christmas Day,
he visited them as usual.
His entrance with his boys and his dogs and his flashing lantern woke old
Joan with a start, and so certain was she that they were the horse, and
the huntsmen, and their hounds come again, that she sprang up in a frenzy
of terror. "Get out, get out!" she cried, "let a poor old woman be!"
But instead of the hollow laugh of the huntsmen, it was the Squire's voice
that answered her.
"Why, here's our poor old lost Joan!" he cried, amazed, "and frightened
out of her wits, seemingly! Why, Joan," he said, "whatever have you been
spending the night out here for? We've been scouring the country for you,
for hours!"
"Oh, Master!" she cried, almost in tears as she dropped trembling at his
feet, "for the sake of all the years I've served 'ee from your cradle up,
do 'ee let me die in peace, and bury me decent!" and then, her tongue once
set going, she poured out all the long tale of the dreadful things that
had happened to her since she set out for Penzance Market.
How long she would have talked no one knows, but the Squire sent for his
men, and between them they carried her home, and warmed and fed and
comforted her, for she was black and blue, wet to the skin, and half
frozen. However, with all their care she soon recovered, and when she was
dry, and warm, and rested she poured out all her adventures and disasters.
To her astonishment, though, and anger and pain, they refused to believe a
word of it. They did not pity her a bit; they even laughed at her.
Indeed, they tried to make her believe that the enchanted steed was only
the miller's old white horse, that the demon huntsman and his hounds were
no more nor less than her own son John riding across the moor with the
dogs, in search of her, that her lost eye must have been scratched out by
a 'fuz'-bush; and so they went on pooh-poohing the whole of her story,--
which was very nearly the most aggravating thing of all she had had to
bear.
One thing, though, Joan had not told them, and that was about her stealing
the Fairy Ointment, or they would have known that she had been pisky-led
that night, by order of the Fairies, as a punishment, and would one and
all have agreed that she richly deserved it.
[1] A 'talfat' is a raised floor at one end of a cottage, on which a bed
is placed. Sometimes it is divided off by a wooden partition, but more
often there is only a bar, to prevent the sleeper falling out of bed.
THE EXCITING ADVENTURE OF JOHN STURTRIDGE.
One of the greatest feast-days in Cornwall, and the most looked forward
to, is St. Picrons' Day, which falls just before Christmas. It is the
special day of the tinners and streamers, their greatest holiday in the
year, and on it they have a great merry-making. Picrons was the
discoverer of tin in Cornwall, so they say, so, of course, it is the
bounden duty of those who earn their living by it, to keep up his day with
rejoicings.
It is not of St. Picrons, though, that I am going to tell you, but of John
Sturtridge, a streamer, and what befell him one year when he had been
keeping up St. Picrons' Day.
He had been up to the 'Rising Sun' to the great supper that was always
held there, and to the merry-making after it, and had enjoyed himself
mightily. Enjoyed himself so much, in fact, that he did not greatly
relish having to turn out, when both were ended, and face a long walk
home.
It was a bitterly cold night, and the road was a lonely one, all across
Tregarden Downs. However, it had to be faced, and nothing was gained by
putting it off, so John started, and at first he got along pretty well.
True, he found the roads very puzzling, and difficult to follow, but that
may have been the fault of the moonlight, or the will-o'-the-wisps.
Anyhow, if he did not get on very rapidly, he got on somehow, and
presently reached the Downs.
Now Tregarden Downs is a horribly wild, uncanny stretch of country,
a place where no one chooses to walk alone after nightfall, and, though
John was in a cheerful mood, and did not feel at all frightened, he
quickened his steps, and pulled hot-foot for home and bed. He kept a
sharp eye on the cart-tracks, too, for he had no fancy for going astray
here as he had done in the lanes. Whether, though, he did go a little
astray or not, no one can say, but all of a sudden what should he come
upon right across his path, but a host of piskies playing all sorts of
games and high jinks under the shelter of a great granite boulder.
Whatever John's feelings may have been at the sight of them, the piskies
were not troubled by the sight of John. They were not in the least
alarmed, the daring little imps. They only burst into roars of wicked
laughter, which pretty nearly scared the wits out of poor John, and made
him take to his heels and run for his life! If only he could get off the
Downs, he thought, he would be safe enough, but the Downs, of which he
knew every yard, seemed to-night to stretch for miles and miles, and,
try as he would, he could not find his way off them. He wandered round
and round, and up and down, and to and fro, until at last he was obliged
to admit to himself that he did not know in the least where he was, for he
could not find a single landmark to guide him.
It is a very unpleasant thing to lose yourself on a big lonely Down, on a
bleak winter's night, but it is ten times more unpleasant when you are
pursued all the way by scores of mischievous little sprites, who shriek
with laughter at you all the time, and from sheer wickedness delight in
leading you into all the marshy places, the prickily 'fuz'-bushes, and
rough boulders they can find, and nearly die of laughter when you prick or
bump yourself, or get stuck in the mud.
John was thoroughly frightened, and thoroughly out of temper, and was
meditating how he could punish his little tormentors, when suddenly from
all sides rose a shrill cry. "Ho and away for Par Beach! Ho and away for
Par Beach! Ho and away for Par Beach!"
Hardly knowing what he was doing John shouted, too. "Ho and away for Par
Beach!" he yelled at the top of his voice, and almost before he had said
the words he was caught high up in the air, and in another minute found
himself on the great stretch of sands at Par. As soon as they had
recovered their breath the piskies all formed up in rings and began to
dance as fast as their little feet could move, and John with them.
"Ho and away for Squire Tremaine's cellar!" The shrill cry rang out
again, even as they danced. John again repeated the cry, and in a flash
found himself in the cellars at Heligan,--Squire Tremaine's place,--with
his mischievous little companions swarming all over them. John felt no
fear of them now. He joined them in all their pranks, and had a good time
running from cask to cask, and bottle to bottle, opening everything and
tasting the contents of most.
John at last became so confused he could not remember who he was or where
he was; in fact, he was so confused and so sleepy that when the piskies
called out, "Ho and away for Par Beach!" try as he would he could not
speak, so the piskies flew off, and John was left behind alone.
John did not mind it in the least, at first, for it was much more pleasant
in the shelter of the cellar, with plenty of wine to warm him, than it
would be out on the desolate sands at Par, where the wind blows keenly
enough to take one's ears off. John did mind, though, the next morning,
when the butler came and discovered him. He was groping his way between
two rows of casks, trying to find his way to Luxulyan, he explained to the
butler, but the butler, instead of putting him in the right road, led him
at once to Squire Tremaine's study, where John told the wonderful story of
his adventures.
Strangely enough, though, neither the Squire nor anyone else would believe
a word of them, and without any consideration for poor John's feelings,
they popped him into Bodmin Jail almost as quickly as the piskies and he
had popped into the cellar. And worse still, before much time had
elapsed, they tried him, convicted him, and sentenced him to be hanged.
Poor John! Here was a dreadful state of affairs, and all brought on an
innocent man by those wicked piskies! There was no escape either, or hope
of reprieve, for people were not so tender-hearted in those days as in
these, and a man was not only sentenced to death for a trifle, but no one
ever took any trouble to get him off.
Well, the fatal day came, and John was brought to the gallows, where a
large crowd was gathered to see the execution; and there stood John, with
the clergyman imploring him to confess, and free his mind of a load of
falsehood; and the hangman waiting with the noose in his hand, waiting to
slip it over poor John's head, when suddenly a beautiful little lady,
dressed in white and silver, appeared in the midst of the crowd gathered
at the gallows-foot.
No one saw her come, no one knew how she got there; but without a word
from her, not knowing, indeed, why they did so, every man, woman, and
child stood back and left a clear pathway for her right up to the
scaffold.
There she paused, and stood, with her eyes fixed on the prisoner, who,
however, did not see her, for he was too frightened to notice anything
that was going on around him--until, "Ho and away for France!" rang out a
sweet voice, which John recognized in a moment. With the sound of it his
poor dazed senses returned, and the spirit to seize the chance of escape
offered him.
"Ho and away for France!" he yelled. There was no danger of his not being
able to shout this time! And then, before anyone there could collect his
senses, the officers of justice saw their prisoner whisked away from out
of their very grasp, and John was in France long before the executioner
and the chaplain, the jailers and the crowd, had ceased gaping stupidly at
each other.
THE TRUE STORY OF ANNE AND THE FAIRIES.
More than two hundred years ago there lived in the parish of St. Teath,
a poor labouring man called Jefferies, and this man had one daughter,
called Anne. Anne was a sweetly pretty girl, and a very intelligent one,
too; but she was a terrible hoyden. She shocked all the old ladies in the
village, and all the prim people, dreadfully, and instead of being
ashamed, she seemed to glory in it.
Everyone wondered how she came to have such a spirit, and whom she took
after, for her mother was as quiet and meek a little woman as ever was
born, and always had been; while her father was a stern, silent man, who
looked upon his flighty daughter as a thorn in his side, a cross laid upon
him for his good. But the fact remains that Anne was the most daring of
all the young people in the parish, doing things that even the boys were
afraid to do, for she had no fear, nothing awed her, and there was nothing
she would not attempt.
In those days the fairies and piskies, witches and goblins of all sorts
were all over the land, and everyone knew it, and was more or less in awe
of them. The young people appealed to the fairies for everything, to be
helped in their work, to get love-draughts, to be made beautiful, and to
know their fortunes. At the same time they all, except Anne, would have
been scared to death if they had caught sight of one. Anne, indeed, often
boldly declared that she longed to see them, and would love to have a talk
with them; and she made up her mind that she would, too, and when once
Anne had got an idea into her head, she generally managed to carry it out.
So, without saying anything to anyone, she went out every evening as soon
as the sun was gone down, and wandered about looking into the fox-glove
bells, and under the ferns, examining the Fairy Rings and every other
likely spot, singing:--
Fairy fair and fairy bright,
Come and be my chosen sprite!
For though she had got a very good and true sweetheart, named Tom, she had
a great fancy for a fairy one. Perhaps she was thinking of the lovely
presents that people said the fairies gave, or perhaps she thought that
she would like to live in a palace, and be dressed in silks and velvet,
none of which things could poor Tom give her, of course.
On moonlight nights Anne crept away by herself to the banks of the stream
which ran through the valley, and here, walking against the current, she
would sing:--
Moon shines bright, water runs clear,
I am here, but where's my fairy dear?
She sang it wistfully enough to touch the heart of any fairy, but though
she went on for a long time repeating all the charms she knew, and trying,
by every means she could think of, to please the Little People, and though
she often nearly put her hand on one during her searches, the Little
People never showed themselves to her.
They noticed her, though, and were only biding their time.
One beautiful warm summer's day, Anne, having finished her housework
early, took her knitting and went and sat in an arbour at the foot of the
garden, for she never could bear to be cooped up indoors if she could
possibly get out. She had not been sitting there very long when she heard
a rustling amongst the bushes, but she took no notice of it, for she felt
it was sure to be her lover, coming to have a talk with her; and now that
she was so possessed with the thought of a fairy lover, she had ceased to
care for poor Tom, and was extremely cool and off-hand with him.
So, at the sound of the rustling, even when it was repeated, she did not
even raise her eyes from her knitting, or turn her head.
Presently, though, the bushes were rustled more violently, and then
someone gave a little laugh. Anne moved this time, for the laugh was
certainly not Tom's laugh.
A lane ran along at the back of the arbour, a lane which one had to pass
down to get to the garden gate, and it was from here that the laugh came.
Anne peeped carefully out through the trellis-work and bushes to try to
see who it was who was laughing at her, but not a sign of any living being
could she see. She felt annoyed, for it is extremely unpleasant to feel
that someone is looking at you through a peep-hole, and making game of
you.
Anne grew so vexed she could not keep her vexation to herself.
"Well," she said aloud, feeling sure it was Tom who was trying to tease
her, "you may stay there till the moss grows over you, before ever I'll
come out to you."
A burst of laughter, peculiarly sweet and ringing, greeted her words.
"Oh," she thought to herself, "whoever can it be? I'm certain sure Tom
could never laugh like that. Who can it be, I wonder?"