Part 23 (2/2)

At daybreak she crossed the river and went on as her master had directed her; he soon overtook her, and placing her on a pillion behind him, they cantered away through dark lanes for miles, going up hill all the time, and Robin spoke not a word. Grace, blinded with tears, saw nothing of the road till they came up into broad daylight and an open country. Still the horse went like the wind, and in a few minutes she saw Carn Kenidjack.

Robin stopped his horse, sprung from his saddle, lifted Grace down and placed her on the rock from which he had fetched her. In answer to her entreaties to be taken home with him again, he only said, ”Prudence and I shall try to get on without other help, yet if we can't I may come for 'e again.” Grace mounted the rock and looked after him as he rode away, but in a few minutes he was out of sight. She lay on the heath and wept till near night ere she arose, slowly descended the downs, and reached her parents' dwelling.

The old folks were much surprised to behold her as they had given her up for lost or dead long ago. Her mother, however, in welcoming her home, lost no time before she opened her bundle, and found enough good clothes to last a lifetime, and amongst them a bag containing more money than they had ever seen before.

Grace's story seemed strange to all the neighbours, but most of the elderly ones concluded from all she told them that one of the changeling small people had taken her away to his underground dwelling or into his habitation in a wood--as such places used to be their common haunts--and there she had lived with him nine years that seemed less than one to her.

She could no more endure her old home--and, showing but little regard for its inmates, loathed their homely fare and old fas.h.i.+oned ways.

Neither could she make up her mind to work steadily as of old, but like one distraught wandered away almost every day to the rock where she had first and last seen Robin of the Carn. She took but little pride in her fine clothes and money, and people thought she would go mad or fret herself to death. Yet, in a little less than two years, which seemed eternal to Grace, a neighbour's wife died leaving several small children; the widower came a courting to the distracted maiden, and, pushed his suit so vigorously, that at length she married him, and, as it happened, her husband had no cause to regret his venture, for the care of his children and plenty of work so far cured her vagaries, that in a few years she almost forgot and little regretted her life with Robin of the Carn.

Grace may be still living; it is only a few years since we were told her story, and then she was a hale old woman with a numerous brood of grandchildren.

There is a similar story told in Zennor of one Cherry who left home to seek service in the low country parishes, and was met on Lady Downs by a fairy gentleman, a widower, who took her to live with him; all went well, till, from curiosity, she disobeyed his orders and was discharged, but not until she had become so much attached to her fairy master that she died with grief on being taken back to her old home.

Though 'modern instances' make up these stories, we have many old fragmentary fairy tales that contain the same fancies; the loss of happiness through inordinate curiosity.

A TINNER'S FIRESIDE STORIES.

THE KNOCKERS OF BALLOWAL.

Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire, To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire.

GOLDSMITH.

A few years ago, in talking with a Lelant miner about the sprites that haunt many old mines, he told us the following story, which we give in his own words, as an example of West Country dialect.

We wish to correct an error that many persons, not Cornish, entertain with regard to the language of Cornish working people. Their mistake originates, in many instances, from seeing in stories--misnamed Cornish, and for the most part written by strangers to the country--such an uncouth jargon, put into the mouths of West Country folks, which is no more the common dialect of Cornwall than it is of Jericho. Our English will bear comparison with that of any rural district, and, in most cases, be found more correct, though somewhat antiquated. Many of our peculiar words, such as agricultural or mining terms, a few names of plants, &c., are genuine old Cornish.

”I know that strangers,” said Uncle Bill, ”and grand learned folks like our pa.s.sen, don't believe in the sperats we cale knackers workan in the bals, and say that the noise, made by these old ghosts of tinners, is caused by water oazan out of a lode and drippen into a pit; as ef the water fallan from ever so high, could sound like hammer and boryer, or pick and showl (shovel) workan away. But, bless us, comrade, what can these strangers that come here--to instruct us, forsooth!--know about such things? Yet how they will talk about what they never heard of before they came among us, and say it es all su-per-sti-tion! Now that's a fine word, my dear, and I mean to use et on all occasions; like An'

Betty Brea, up your way, who es twenty times a day askan 'Do 'e knaw the sig-ni-fi-ca-tion' of some fiddle-stick's end, or other, that she may use her one grand word, lately picked up from a local preacher.

”I've been minded lately of a story that was told me by an old comrade--Uncle Tom Trevorrow, who's many years older than I am. When I was a boy, workan at Trink Stamps, he was married; and he was then as fine a man as one would meet of a long summer's day. If you'll have patience enow I'll tell 'e the story of

TOM AND THE KNACKERS.

”Do let's have the droll, Uncle Bill,” said I, and he related as follows,--

”From the time Tom was old enow to handle a pick and showl he had lived in Trecroben, and worked in Wheal Reath, till twenty years or so ago, when work fell slack here, and some bals were knacked (stopped). Then he went to Santust (St. Just) to look for a job and found work in Ballowal.

Most people have heard of that queer old bal, that was worked before The Flood, they say. There the old men's works, weth their deep open coffans (pits) may still be seen, jest as they left them, only wash'd and run'd in a good deal one may suppose. That old bal, everybody in Santust will tell 'e, have always been haunted with knackers. And the burrows, in crofts and cleves around, are swarman with them, and weth spriggans, wherever anything belongan to the old bal was burred. There these sprites keep everlastan watch, though all the old men's tools or treasures may be gone to rust, earth, and dust. One don't often see them, 'tis true, but only break ground near them and they'll show their ugly faces, as many have known to their cost.

Tom and his eldest boy went over and worked a few weeks, to see how they liked the place and people before removing his wife and family.

They liked the Santusters fust rate. They're a capital set of red-tailed drones--only give them their own way; but you will soon find out that one must either fight or be thorough friends with them 'one and all.'

Tom took a house in Letcha--handy by the bal. When his family were moved, he and the boy worked together on tribute, and worked hard makan double cores. When it came near pay-day, the boy, for want of rest, gave out, and his father worked on alone.

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