s not hard to picture the Small People
at their play on the turf and among the dim flower-beds below us.
But, as a matter of fact, they are dead, these Small People.
They were the long-lived but not immortal spirits of the folk who
inhabited Cornwall many thousands of years back--far beyond Christ's
birth. They were "poor innocents," not good enough for heaven yet
too good for the eternal fires; and when they first came, were of
ordinary stature. But after Christ's birth they began to grow
smaller and smaller, and at length turned into emmets and vanished
from the earth.

The last I heard of them was a sad and serious little history, very
different from the old legends. Part of it I was told by a hospital
surgeon, of all people in the world. Part I learnt by looking at
your beautiful gown last night, as you leant on the balcony-rail.
You remember how heavy the dew was, and that I fetched a shawl for
your shoulders. You did not wrap it so tightly round but that four
marguerites in gold embroidery showed on the front of your bodice;
and these come into the tale, the remainder of which I was taught
this morning before breakfast, down among the cairns by the sea where
the Small People's Gardens still remain--sheltered spots of green,
with here and there some ferns and cliff-pinks left. For me they are
libraries where sometimes I read for a whole summer's day; and with
the help of the hospital surgeon, I bring you from them a story about
your ball-gown which is perfectly true.

Twenty years ago--before the fairies had dwindled into ants, and when
wayfarers were still used to turn their coats inside out, after
nightfall, for fear of being "pisky-led"--there lived, down at the
village, a girl who knew all the secrets of the Small People's
Gardens. Where you and I discover sea-pinks only, and hear only the
wash of the waves, she would go on midsummer nights and find flowers
of every colour spread, and hundreds of little lights moving among
them, and fountains and waterfalls and swarms of small ladies and
gentlemen, dressed in green and gold, walking and sporting among
them, or reposing on the turf and telling stories to the most
ravishing soft music. This was as much as she would relate; but it
is certain that the piskies were friends of hers. For, in spite of
her nightly wanderings, her housework was always well and cleanly
done before other girls were dressed--the morning milk fresh in the
dairy, the step sanded,