“Afraid? No; why should I be?” “Why, some people think it’s unlucky to carry off the pisky wool; but perhaps you know from the Scriptures how to keep off any harm.” I did know better than to reason against such fancies with a Cornish yeoman of threescore and fifteen, and I thought it a good opening for a saw or ancient instance.[159] “Pixies!” was my leading answer; “and who are they?” “Ancient inhabitants,” was the grave reply--“folks that used to live in the land before us Christians comed here. So, at least, I’ve heerd my mother say. They are a small people.” “And what about this wool? What use do they make of it.” “Why, they spin it for clothing, and to keep ’em warm by night. They’d do a power of work for the farmers, and for a very small matter to eat and drink, too; and they would sing, evenings--sing and crowdie like a Christmas choir.” The solemn tones of his voice, and the grim gravity of visage with which old Trevarten made known these mysteries, attested his own deep belief in their reality and truth. “Had I never seen those rings on the grass upon Hennacleave Hill--circles about a foot wide, of a darker colour than the rest of the turf?” he inquired, well knowing that I had, but rather rejoicing in an opportunity of enlightening me with scientific revelations of his own. “Did I know how they came there, and who made them?” “No.” “Well, that was surprising: he thought that the college teached such things, or why did it cost so much money to go there to learn? Howsomever, _he_ would let me know about they rings. The piskies made mun, dancing hand-in-hand by night. They rise about midnight, and they put on their Sunday clothes, and they agree to meet in such or such a spot, and there one will crowdie and the others daunce, and beat out the time with their feet, till they’ve worn the shape of a round-about in the grass, and nort will wear out that ring for evermore!” Deeply grateful for this information, I ventured to inquire, “And did you ever see any of these pixy people yourself?” “Why, I can’t say for sartain that I didno seed mun; my mother hath--so I’ve yeerd her tell divers times. No; but I’ve seed their works, such as tying up the manes of the colts in stirrups for riding by night, and terrifying the cows into the clover till they wor jist a bosted with the wet grass. And I’ve been pisky-eyed more than once coming home from the market or fair; and I’ve yeerd mun at their rollicking night-times frayquently, but I can’t say that I ever seed their faytures, so as to know ’em again another time.” “Well,” said I, as a sort of closing and clenching remark, “all I can say is that I wish I could lay hold of one of these pixies, just to look at--that’s all.” “Do you?” was his quick rejoinder; “do you really desire it? I daresay I can oblige you one day. It is not a month agone that I’d all but catched one.” “Indeed!” said I, half bewildered. “How? Where was it?”