Tales of the Cornish Small People Page 2

The illustrations on this page are by Maise Meiklejohn from 'The Mermaid of Zennor and other Cornish Tales by Eileen Molony (1946)

The Piskies' Changeling

'There is a farmhouse of some antiquity with which my family have a close connection; and it is this circumstance, more than any other, that has rendered this tradition concerning it more interesting to us, and better remembered than many other equally romantic and authentic. Close to this house, one day, a little miserable-looking bantling was discovered alone, unknown, and incapable of making its wants understood. It was instantly remembered by the finder, that this was the way in which the piskies were accustomed to deal with those infants of their race for whom they sought human protection; and it would have been an awful circumstance if such a one were not received by the individual so visited. The anger of the piskies would be certain, and some direful calamity must be the result; whereas, a kind welcome would probably be attended with great good fortune. The miserable plight of this stranger, therefore, attracted attention and sympathy. The little unconscious one was admitted as one of the family. Its health was speedily restored, and its renewed strength, activity, intelligence, and good-humour, caused it to become a general favourite. It is true the stranger was often found to indulge in odd freaks; but this was accounted for by a recollection of its pedigree, which was not doubted to be of the piskie order. So the family prospered, and had banished the thought that the foundling would ever lave them. There was to the front door of this house, a hatch, which is a half-door, that is kept closed when the whole door behind it is open, and it then serves as a guard against the intrusion of dogs, hogs, and ducks, while air and light are freely admitted. This little being was one day looking over the top of this hatch, and looking wistfully outward, when a clear voice was heard to proceed from a neighbouring part of the townplace, calling, 'Coleman Gray, Coleman Gray!' The piskie immediately started up, and with a sudden laugh, clapped its hands, exclaiming, 'Aha! my daddy is come!" It was gone in a moment, never to be seen again.'

(Taken from Robert Hunt's Popular Romances of the West of England, quoting T. Quiller Couch's story "Coleman Gray" in Notes and Queries.)

The Three Little Pigsies

There was once a fox, who prowling by night in search of prey, came unexpectedly on a colony of pixies. Each pixy had a separate house. The first he came to was a wooden house.
'Let me in, let me in,' said the fox.
'I won't,' was the pixy's reply, 'and the door is fastened.'
So the fox climbed to the top of the house, pushed it down, and made a meal of the unfortunate pixy.
The next house was made of un-mortared stones. 'Let me in, let me in,' said the fox.
'I won't,' replied the pixy, 'and the door is fastened.' So the fox climbed to the top of the house, pushed it down, and made a meal of the unfortunate pixy.
The third was an iron house.
'Let me in, let me in,' said the fox.
'I won't,' replied the third pixy, 'and the door is fastened.'
'But I bring good news,' said the fox.
'No, no,' answered the pixy, 'I know what you want. You shall not come in here tonight.'
That house the fox tried in vain to destroy. It was too strong for him and he went away in despair. But he returned the next night and exerted all his fox-like qualities in the hope of deceiving the pixy. For some time he tried in vain, until at last he mentioned a tempting field of turnips in the neighbourhood, to which he offered to conduct the pixy - who agreed to meet him the next morning at four o'clock.
But the pixy outwitted the fox, for he found his way to the field and returned laden with turnips long before the fox was out of bed. The fox was greatly vexed, and long unable to devise another scheme, until he thought of a great fair soon to be held a short way off, and proposed to the pixy that they should set off for it together at three in the morning.
The pixy agreed, but the fox was again outwitted, for he was only up in time to meet the pixy returning with his fairings (purchases from the fair) - a clock, a crock and a frying pan.
The pixy, who saw the fox coming, got into the crock and rolled himself down the hill; and the fox, unable to find him, abandoned the scent and went away. The pixy went home, but unfortunately forgot to fasten his door. The fox returned the next morning and, finding the door open, went in - when he caught the pixy in bed, put him in a box, and locked him in.
'Let me out,' said the pixy, 'and I will tell you a wonderful secret.'
The fox was at last persuaded to lift the cover, and the pixy, corning out, threw such a spell upon him that he was compelled to enter the box in his turn - and there at last he died.

(This curious story appeared in 1846 in the Athenaeum magazine. It was submitted as an example of a tale about piskies then current in the West Country. No mention was made at the time, or in subsequent letters, of its similarity to the nursery story of the three little pigs. I have found no version of the pig story until 1849, three years after this appeared, but that is not to say they do not exist. The version here has lost its punch line, since the clock and the frying pan should have a function in the story, and the 'spell' is an unsatisfactory solution. Piskieses are perhaps more likely to live in houses than pigs, and they must certainly use 'turnup' which (meaning swede) is an essential ingredient in Cornish pasties.)

'As stiff as Barker's Knee'

'The buccas or knockers are believed to inhabit the rocks, caves, adits, and wells of Cornwall. In the parish of Towednack there was a well where those industrious small people might every day be heard busy at their labours - digging with pickaxe and shovel. I said, every day. No; on Christmas-day - on the Jews' Sabbath - on Easter day - and on All-Saints' day - no work was done. Why our little friends held those days in reverence has never been told me. Any one, by placing his ear on the ground at the mouth of this well, could distinctly hear the little people at work.

There lived in the neighbourhood a great, hulking fellow, who would rather do anything than work, and who refused to believe anything he heard. He had been told of the Faerie Well - he said it was "all a dream." But since the good people around him reiterated their belief in the fairies of the well, he said he'd find it all out. So day after day, Barker - that was this hulk's name - would lie down amidst the ferns growing around the mouth of the well, and, basking in the sunshine, listen and watch. He soon heard pick and shovel, and chit-chat, and merry laughter. "Well, he 'd see the out of all this", he told his neighbours. Day after day, and week after week, this fellow was at his post. Nothing resulted from his watching. At last he learned to distinguish the words used by the busy workers. He discovered that each set of labourers worked eight hours, and that, on leaving, they hid their tools. They made no secret of this; and one evening he heard one say, he should place his tools in a cleft in the rock; another, that he should put his under the ferns; and another said, he should leave his tools on Barker's knee. He started on hearing his own name. At that moment a heavy weight fell on the man's knee; he felt excessive pain and roared to have the cursed thing taken away. His cries were answered by laughter. To the day of his death Barker had a stiff knee; he was laughed at by all the parish and 'Barker's knee' became a proverb.

Tom Trevorrow

'Tom Trevorrow was working underground when he heard the knockers just before him. Foolishly, he roughly told them to 'Be quiet and go!' upon which a shower of stones fell suddenly around him, and gave him a dreadful fright. He seems however to have quickly got over it, and soon after, when eating his dinner, he heard a number of squeaking voices singing:

"Tom Trevorrow! Tom Trevorrow!
Leave some of thy fuggan (a kind of lardy-cake) for bucca,
Or bad luck to thee to-morrow!"

But Tom took no notice and ate up every crumb, upon which the knockers changed their song to:

"Tommy Trevorrow! Tommy Trevorrow!
We'll send thee bad luck to-morrow;
Thou old curmudgeon, to eat all thy fuggan,
And leave not a didjan (morsel) for bucca."

After this, such persistent ill-luck followed him that he was obliged to leave the mine.'

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