An encounter with Spriggans

'Not long since, a tinner of Lelant dreamt, three nights following, that a crock of gold Divas buried in a particular spot between large rocks within the castle, on Trecroben hill. The next clear moonlight night he dug up the ground of which he had dreamt. After working two or three hours he came to a flat stone which sounded hollow; whilst digging round its edges, the weather became suddenly dark, the wind roared around the carns, and looking up, when he had made a place for his hands to lift it, he saw hundreds of ugly spriggans coming out from amidst the rocks gathering around and approaching him. The man dropped his pick, ran down the hill and home as fast as could lay foot to ground; he took to his bed and was unable leave it for weeks.

When he next visited the castle he found the pit all filled with the turf replaced; and he nevermore dug for the treasure.'

(Taken from William Bottrell's Traditions and hearthside stories of West Cornwall.)

The Small People's Garden

'If the adventurous traveller who visits the Land's End district will go down as far as he can on the south-west side of the Logan Rock Cairn, and look over, he will see, in little sheltered places between the cairns, close down to the water's edge, beautifully green spots, with here and there some ferns and cliff-pinks. These are the gardens of the Small People, or, as they are called by the natives, Small Folk. They are beautiful little creatures, who appear to pass a life of constant enjoyment amongst their own favourite flowers. They are harmless; and if man does not meddle with them when they are holding their fairs--which are indeed high festivals--the Small Folk never interfere with man or anything belonging to him. They are known to do much good, especially when they discover a case of oppressed poverty; but they do it in their own way. They love to do good for its own sake, and the publication of it in any way draws down their censure, and sometimes severe anger, on the object whom it was their purpose to serve. To prove that those lovely little creatures are no dream, I may quote the words of a native of St Levan: "As I was saying, when I have been to sea close under the cliffs, of a fine summer's night, I have heard the sweetest of music, and seen hundreds of little lights moving about amongst what looked like flowers, Ay! and they are flowers too, for you may smell the sweet scent far out at sea. Indeed, I have heard many of the old men say, that they have smelt the sweet perfume, and heard the music from the faerie gardens of the Castle, when more than a mile from the shore." Strangely enough, you can find no flowers but the sea-pinks in these lovely green places by day, yet they have been described by those who have seen them in the midsummer moonlight as being covered with flowers of every colour, all of them far more brilliant than any blossoms seen in any mortal garden.'

[Undocumented Reference]

The Fairy Fair of Germoe

'Bal Lane in Germoe was a notorious place for piskies. One night Daniel Champion and his comrade came to Godolphin Bridge,--they were a little bit "overtook" with liquor. They said that when they came to "Bal Lane," they found it covered all over from end to end, and the Small People holding a fair there with all sorts of merchandise--the prettiest sight they ever met with. Champion was sure he saw his child there; for few nights before, his child in the evening was as beautiful a one as could be seen anywhere, but in the morning was changed for one as ugly and wizened as could be; and he was sure the Small People had done it. Next day, telling the story at Croft Gothal, his comrade was knocked backward, thrown into the bob-pit, and just killed. Obliged to be carried to his home, Champion followed, and was telling of their adventure with the Small People, when one said, "Don't speak about them; they're wicked, spiteful devils." No sooner were the words uttered than the speaker was thrown clean over stairs and bruised dreadfully, a convincing proof to all present of the reality of the existence of the Small Folks.'

(Taken from Robert Hunt's Popular Romances of the West of England.)