orridge, a dish of milk, and a little quiet fun
with the country folk in the lanes was enough for me then, as it is
now. I belong here, you see, and I have been mixed up with people all
my days. But most of the others insisted on being Gods, and having
temples, and altars, and priests, and sacrifices of their own.'

'People burned in wicker baskets?' said Dan. 'Like Miss Blake tells us
about?'

'All sorts of sacrifices,' said Puck. 'If it wasn't men, it was
horses, or cattle, or pigs, or metheglin--that's a sticky, sweet sort
of beer. I never liked it. They were a stiff-necked, extravagant set
of idols, the Old Things. But what was the result? Men don't like
being sacrificed at the best of times; they don't even like sacrificing
their farm-horses. After a while, men simply left the Old Things
alone, and the roofs of their temples fell in, and the Old Things had
to scuttle out and pick up a living as they could. Some of them took
to hanging about trees, and hiding in graves and groaning o' nights.
If they groaned loud enough and long enough they might frighten a poor
countryman into sacrificing a hen, or leaving a pound of butter for
them. I remember one Goddess called Belisama. She became a common wet
water-spirit somewhere in Lancashire. And there were hundreds of other
friends of mine. First they were Gods. Then they were People of the
Hills, and then they flitted to other places because they couldn't get
on with the English for one reason or another. There was only one Old
Thing, I remember, who honestly worked for his living after he came
down in the world. He was called Weland, and he was a smith to some
Gods. I've forgotten their names, but he used to make them swords and
spears. I think he claimed kin with Thor of the Scandinavians.'

'Heroes of Asgard Thor?' said Una. She had been reading the book.

'Perhaps,' answered Puck. 'None the less, when bad times came, he
didn't beg or steal. He worked; and I was lucky enough to be able to
do him a good turn.'

'Tell us about it,' said Dan. 'I think I like hearing of Old Things.'

They rearranged themselves comfortably, each chewing a grass stem.
Puck propped himself on one strong arm and went on:

'Let's think! I met Weland first on a November afternoon in a sleet
storm, on Pevensey Level.'

'Pevensey? Over the hill, you mean?' Dan pointed south.

'Yes; but it was all marsh in those days, right up to Horsebridge and
Hydeneye. I was