North Cornwall Fairies and Legends Part 11

She said she could not imagine who had taken the things, but looked suspiciously at her little granddaughter Genefer.

'The cat must have got into the spence and done me out of my birthday treat,' said the old turf-cutter. 'You must shut the spence-window the next time you put a junket in there.'

'But the biscuits have gone as well as the junket,' said the old woman, still looking at little Genefer. 'Cats have no liking for sugar biscuits, that ever I heard tell of.'

The next time Grannie Nankivell took biscuits and a junket into her spence she shut the window and also the door; but when she got up the following morning and went to see if they were safe, lo and behold! the junket-bowl was again empty and the biscuits were gone.

''Tis a two-legged cat who has eaten up my beautiful biscuits and junket,' she said to her husband; and she turned and looked at little Genefer.

'I am not the two-legged cat who ate up all the nice things you made for Granfer,' cried the child, meeting the old woman's glance with her honest brown eyes.

'I never said you did,' said Grannie Nankivell; 'but 'tis queer the junket-bowl is empty and every biscuit gone from the dish.'

'I expect it was a dog which got into the spence and licked up the junket and ate the biscuits,' put in the old turf-cutter. 'I would lock and bar the spence-door, if I were you, the next time I put such nice things in there.'

'I will,' she said.

The next time Grannie Nankivell made biscuits and a junket she barred the window of the spence and locked the door, and the next morning, before Genefer dressed, she went to see if her junket and biscuits were all right; but the little round biscuits, which she had so carefully made and sugared, were every one gone, and the junket-bowl was quite empty, and as dry as a bone.

''Tis our little grandcheeld who has eaten it all!' cried Grannie Nankivell in great anger to the old turf-cutter. 'No cat or dog could get into a spence with door locked and window barred.'

'I don't believe it was Genefer,' said the old man stoutly.

'If it was not Genefer, who was it, pray? Biscuits and junkets don't eat up themselves, any more than dogs and cats can get through keyholes and barred windows.'

'That's true,' said Granfer Nankivell; 'all the same, I am certain sure that our dear little grandcheeld would not go and eat up the things.'

'Then who did?' asked the old woman with a snap.

'The little Piskeys, I shouldn't wonder,' he answered. 'My great-grannie told me they were little greedy-guts, and in her days they used to skim the cream off the milk, and eat all the cheese-cakes she used to make, unless she put some for them outside on the doorstep. Regular little thieves the Piskeys were in her days. P'raps they haven't learnt to be honest yet. There are plenty about now, and Little Moormen too, by the teheeing and tehoing I have heard lately, waiting, I dare say, to play some of their pranks on me.'

But Grannie Nankivell was still unconvinced, and still believed it was Genefer, and not the Piskeys, who ate her biscuits and junket.

One evening the old woman put another bowl of junket and a dish of biscuits in the spence, and was as careful as before to bar the window and lock the door; and in the middle of the night, when her husband was fast asleep and snoring, she got up and came downstairs to see if she could find out for certain who it was that ate up her good things. When she came down, whom should she see but her little grand-daughter Genefer standing by the spence-door in her little bedgown.

'I am fine and glad you have come, Grannie,' whispered the child, before the old woman could say anything. 'I believe it is the Piskeys who have eaten the junket and things you made for Granfer. I saw a d.i.n.ky little fellow not much bigger than your thumb go in through the keyhole just now. They are having a fine time in there, anyhow,'

as her grandmother looked at her oddly. 'If I were you, I would look through the keyhole and see what they are doing.'

And through the keyhole the old woman looked, and saw, to her amazement, scores and scores of green-coated little men, whiskered like a man, on the oak table, standing round the junket-bowl ladling out the rich, thick junket with their tiny little hands, and half a dozen other little chaps were up in the window-sill pa.s.sing out her delicious sugar biscuits to the Tiny Moormen, who were even more whiskered and bearded than their distant relations, the Piskeys.

By their faces, they were all greatly enjoying themselves, and at the expense of Granfer Nankivell, the turf-cutter!

Grannie Nankivell was so astonished that she lost her mouth-speech, [22] but when she found it her old voice shrilled through the keyhole:

'Filling your little bellies with the junket and biskeys I made for my old man, be 'ee?' she cried. 'I'll wring the necks of every one of you--iss fy, I will!'

The old woman spoke too soon to carry out her threat, for she had no sooner spoken than the Piskeys vanished, the Tiny Moormen as well, and where they went she never knew.

But her husband told her the little rascals were still in the spence when she could not see them.

'They have the power to make themselves visible or invisible, whichever is most convenient to them,' he said.

'They have done you out of your biscuits and junket a good many times, anyhow,' cried the old woman.

'Iss,' said Granfer Nankivell, 'they have; and as I did away with the Piskey-beds, we are quits. I only hope they will be of the same mind, and won't come any more and eat up those nice things you make for me. I am quite longing for a plateful of junket and one of your sweet biscuits.'

Whether the Piskeys thought the old turf-cutter was sufficiently punished for clearing out their sleeping-places, or whether Grannie Nankivell's threat to wring their necks frightened them away, we cannot tell. At all events, they and the Tiny Moormen kept away from the cottage on the moor, and whenever the old woman made sugar biscuits and sweet junket, and put them in the spence, no two-legged cat, Moormen or Piskeys, ever ate up those specially-made dainties; and little Genefer's honesty was never again doubted.

THE OLD SKY WOMAN

When winter brought the cold north wind, and the snowflakes began to fall, the little North Cornwall children were always told that the Old Woman was up in the sky plucking her Goose.

The children were very interested in the Old Sky Woman and her great White Goose, and they said, as they lifted their soft little faces to the grey of the cloud and watched the feathers of the big Sky Goose come whirling down, that she was a wonderful woman and her Goose a very big Goose.

'I want to climb up to the sky to see the Old Woman plucking her Goose,' cried a tiny boy; and he asked his mother to show him the great Sky Stairs. But his mother could not, for she did not know where the Sky Stairs were; so the poor little boy could not go up to see the Old Sky Woman plucking the beautiful feathers out of her big White Goose.

'Where does the Old Woman keep her great White Goose?' asked another child, with eyes and hair as dark as a raven's wing, as he watched the snow-white feathers come dancing down.

'In the beautiful Sky Meadows behind the clouds,' his mother said.

'What is the Old Sky Woman going to do with her great big Goose when she has picked her bare?' queried a little maid with sweet, anxious eyes.

'Stuff it with onions and sage,' her Granfer said.

'What will she do then with her great big Goose?' the little maid asked.

'Hang it up on the great Sky Goose-jack and roast for her Christmas dinner,' her Granfer said.

'Poor old Goose!' cried the little maid.

'I don't believe the Old Sky Woman would be so unkind as to kill and pluck her great big Goose,' said a wise little maid with sunny hair and eyes as blue as the summer sea. 'Winter-time is the Sky Goose's moulting time, and the Old Sky Woman is sweeping out the Sky Goose's house with her great Sky Broom, and the White Goose's feathers are flying down to keep the dear little flowers nice and warm till the north wind has gone away from the Cornish Land.'

'Perhaps that is so, dear little maid,' her Granfer said.

REEFY, REEFY RUM