Mrs. Andrawartha took kindly to the Bookworm; he was the lame duck of
the party, and so she took a motherly interest in him, and got him to
talk about himself and his sleepless, restless nights, until he came
into this land wherein Nature was at rest, beautifying herself after
passionate upheavals. And then she told him fairy stories about piskies
with half-shy credulity, and sorrow in her face and voice that the old
order had changed and given place to new. In her young days a pedlar
with a big dog used to travel from farmhouse to farmhouse, and always
got hospitality in exchange for news. At night all the household
crowded around the pedlar to hear him fiddle and sing, and tell stories
of the piskies, and of men who listened to the songs of mermaids, and
disappeared from family and life. This pedlar--"Uncle" Anthony he was
called--was a poet, and his piskies were real, as real as sunshine and
shadow and the music of the birds. He knew them by name and talked to
them, and met them by moonlight on the moors, and what "Uncle" Anthony
said was gospel truth.
[Illustration: THE OLD MILL.]
There was an old miller, living at an old mill not so very far away,
who had the reputation of knowing more about piskies than any man
breathing. It was only a walking distance for the Bookworm, and Guy
took his rod with him, having been told that below the mill he might
cast a fly with some prospect of sport. Whipping a stream is something,
and Guy said he'd rather cast at shadows than hang about a dusty old
mill, listening to a foolish old man prating about foolish things. In
fact, he was a little strong in his language, as he usually was when
talking about people or things which did not interest him very much.
The old piskie man at the mill was, in fact, the Bookworm's "find,"
which was quite enough, as a rule, to put Guy in opposition, and
incline him to use epigrammatic language touched with red.
We reached the mill, the like of which is hardly to be found again
within the four corners of the kingdom. It was a one-story building,
and that so low that we had to be careful when inside not to knock
our heads against the beams, and the machinery was as primitive as
the process of grinding corn between revolving stones driven by water
power. The ancient hopper was being slowly consumed by worms, and the
"bolting" cloths hung limp and dusty, like the cloths sent home from
Egyptian tombs. We first spied the miller looking through a ventilation
hole, which served as a window. When we entered the mill he was sitting
on the lid of a thick oak chest, which had outlived the centuries, and
seemed quite capable of lasting for ever.
The miller was withered, like the chest, and might have been believed
if he said he was as old as the mill, only his eyes were bright and
ferrety as they took stock of us through the flour dust accumulated
on his eyebrows and lashes--a sort of flour mummy outside of his
grave-clothes out for an airing, he looked. The machinery was in motion
when we entered, and a fine dust soon settled upon us, and then set us
coughing and choking, so that we made a hasty retreat through the door,
the top half of which was already open.
The miller's cottage was a thatched dwelling tacked on to the mill,
which was also thatched, but nothing was visible of the cottage but
windows, on account of the clustering roses and myrtles and fuschias
which clung to the old "cob" walls, and crept along the eaves, and
scrambled along the thatch.
The old miller followed us out into the open, and stopped the wheel by
turning off the water; and then we noticed that the dripping wheel was
festooned with lichen, and was half-hidden under the shadow of a huge
flowering laurel. There were only three other cottages in the village,
and these were all flower-laden; and now the clat, clat, clatter of
the old wheel was stopped, the air was musical with the hum of insect
symphonies. And then the perfume!
We looked at one another and wondered.
"Quiet like," said the old man; and that was all he had to say about
this antique gem in a garden of myrtles and roses. "Quiet like,"
indeed! Surely men may live in beauty until they cease to see it.
We were out piskie-hunting to-day, all except Guy, who already had his
eye upon the stream which passed the old mill, then broadened where
it could be seen glistening in the sunshine. He wasn't long before
he deserted us, and we were not sorry, being sure that if he once
commenced questioning the miller in his off-hand manner, the old man
would dry up quickly, and we should hear little.
The Bookworm took the old man's fancy by telling him about a new
process for grinding flour between rollers so hard that they could only
be cut by diamonds, and then, with many windings, got on the track
of the piskies. He took a lot of starting, it is true, but when once
started he covered a good deal of ground. He would take his own course,
and a crooked one it was, but capable of being straightened out, which
is more than can truly be said of the discourses of some very learned
people.
He was as "sure and sartin" that piskies were real beings, and existed
even now, as that "water was wet," and he ought to know, because there
was a piskie which belonged to the old mill. There was some trouble one
day at the mill about the non-delivery of "grist," the miller being
charged with taking unfair toll, and he shifted the responsibility on
to his wife, who thereupon transferred the blame to the piskie, as the
person least likely to suffer in consequence. It so happened that the
piskie got to know of the slander, and he came to the mill in a great
rage, and swore an oath binding in fairyland, not to do another stroke
of work in the old mill for two generations.
"When I was a boy," said the old man, "I used to see the piskie that
belonged to the mill sitting on the stones when they were grinding as
comfortable as a fly would rest upon a turning wheel. And why not?
When my father went to market, and stopped away days, when there was no
need, the work was done all the same. My father liked that very well,
only the piskie would give too good 'tummels' when he filled the sacks;
and when my father took too much toll, then he would tickle the palm of
his hand, and make it itch, to remind him that he was cheating. When
a miller is honest, a tuft of hair grows in the middle of his palm;
but it didn't ever sprout in my fathers, which made him poor-tempered
sometimes. The piskie was in the shape of a man--very dark,
black-haired, and cross-eyed. He could work best, the old folks said,
when not seen; only his voice was large for his size, and made people
know when he was about. He was the spirit of the mill, and belonged to
it, so there was no question of payment; and the children grew knowing
he was there, and were not afraid. Why should they be? When the piskie
said he would do no more work for two generations, my father stuck to
work himself, which was better for him in the long run; and I've had to
stick to it, and shall stick to it till I die, and then the piskie will
be free to come again."
"And are there piskies now?"
"Why not?"
"I don't know. But do people believe in them?" asked the Bookworm.
The old miller seemed to resent the question, and was so long in
replying that we thought we had made a mess of it. It, however,
appeared that he was only thinking; and at last he said--
"For sartin sure they do. You can't make butter if the piskies turn the
cream against the sun, and every dairymaid will tell 'ee so. If the
piskie up to Barton farm has a spite against a new maid, he'll spoil
her baking of bread, so that the bread will come out of the oven full
of 'piskie-spits,' and he'll play her tricks until she is turned out of
the house. When I was a boy, the piskies used to have fine fun with the
maidens up to Barton on winter nights when all the work was done. They
used to blaw out the candles and kiss the maids, and the maids would
screech and find fault with the boys, and 'scat their chacks' for being
too free in the dark. The piskies were full of fun, and would whisper
in a maid's ear when she was sleeping, and tickle her nose to wake her
when she had bad dreams. When the maids were courting they'd lead 'em a
pretty dance, and drive 'em to quarrel with their sweethearts, and then
help 'em to make it up again."
But the old man did not think they were as plentiful as they used to
be, for the simple reason that people had learnt to do without them.
What would be the good of the piskies in the harvest-field now, when
everything was done by machinery; or in dairies, where butter was made
in churns; or in flour-mills, where corn was broken between rollers
so hard that a diamond could only scratch them? The old man found it
as hard to swallow the Bookworm's description of roller mills as we
found it to swallow his stories, and his were much more inviting. The
ancient miller rambled on and on, telling us of tricks played upon his
very own grandfather, who, returning from market with more brandy toddy
under his belt than his weak head could carry, dared to cross a piskie
ring on the moor without first turning his pockets inside out by way of
homage. The poor man was pinched black and blue, was bound with bonds
innumerable, no thicker than spiders' webs, and then, to tantalize him,
his eyes were "struck" with magic unguent, and he was able to see the
feasting and rioting going on all around him, without being able to
enjoy the situation--all of which he did most steadfastly believe.
"Blow the piskies!" said Guy, rejoining us without warning. "Blow the
piskies! Did you ever catch one, Master Miller?"
A look of horror passed over the withered old face, which made it look
uncanny. Catch a piskie, indeed! Had he been asked whether he'd ever
robbed a church, he might have taken it less seriously.
"Never mind," said Guy, airily, seeing that he'd been guilty of
something--"never mind; if you never have, you still may. Specimens
getting scarcer, suppose, and a bit expensive; only, you just pin one
on to a card and send it to me registered, for safety, and I'll come
down handsomely."
The old man never recovered power of speech while we were with him, and
he shook hands with the Bookworm and me automatically. We left him with
eyes wide open, staring before him. I don't think he quite understood
Guy's humour. The idea of catching a piskie and pinning it to a card,
like small boys do cockchafers, came too suddenly upon him. Then to
register a piskie and send it through the post-office--deporting an
ancient divinity under a postage stamp--set up ideas which wanted
thinking out.
I told Guy I feared the shock would be too much for the old man; but he
only laughed, and said--
"Blow the piskie, and look at my beauty!"
He had managed to catch a trout too small for anything, and he patted
himself on the back, and talked about it until he really believed he
had done something deserving the world's gratitude.
"After all," said the Bookworm, when tired of listening to Guy and
"fly" this or "fly" the other--"after all, there's no great difference
between Guy and the miller. Guy's little trout has become a fairy
already, and to-morrow will be even more wonderful than the miller's
piskies. The mind's receptivity must----"
I know I lost a great deal, and ought to be sorry for it, I dare say;
but the word "receptivity" was too much, and I managed to escape that
time.
[Illustration: PERRAN PORTH.]
[Illustration: GORRAN HARBOUR.]