Page:Folk-lore - A Quarterly Review. Volume 13, 1902.djvu/192

176 woods seeking and calling the phantom cows that she thinks herself to have lost.

Again, in St. Briavel's itself, some years ago a cottager offended his neighbours, and one fine Sunday afternoon when he and his family tried to re-enter their cottage after a walk, they found the door so fast shut that it had finally to be broken open with a pickaxe. This was undoubted witchcraft.

The vicar of the neighbouring parish of Newlands one day called his man in from mowing the hay to see to something that was needed in a hurry. To his surprise, instead of coming at once, the man stopped to carefully sharpen the scythe, and to set it aside, edge upwards. On his return he said to the parson, "You don't know why I sharpened my scythe before going? I'll tell 'ee. If I'd ha' left that there scythe unsharpened, look see, and an old witch had come along and seen it, she'd ha' rid that scythe round and round the field, and it wouldn't never have had no edge to cut with no more!" "And I went from there," said the clergyman, in telling the story, "to the churchwarden's house, and found him, with all his family, standing round making charms to make the butter come."

Old people have told me various tales of witches in their young days; how they gave charms that were better than any doctor's stuff, and notably one story of how a young girl put up for the night with a widow and her daughter. The cottage was small and the guest shared her hostess's bed. It was a fearful night and the noise of the storm kept the young girl awake. In her restless turning, her hand happened to touch the old woman, who was stone-cold, and in her horror she cried out: "Oh! your mother be dead." "Dead," laughed the daughter, "her ben't dead, her be out and about now!"

Passing from Witches to Fairies, the belief is weaker. They have not been seen for many years, though they used to dance in the Mork, and were "like little soldiers." But we can boast of one fairy-tale which is, I think, quite local.

There was once a farmer of the name of John Jones, who lived in the Mork. He had had a bad year and was hard put to it to pay his rent, so he decided to sell some cider, and started out with the intention of offering it round. As he left the house he met a man who said, "John, do you want to sell some cider?" "Yes," said John, and after some discussion they settled on a