Legend Land, Volume 2 | Page 8

mourning, each carried a gay
wreath or garland of roses or myrtle.
Presently the watcher beheld a bier borne by six piskies, and on it was
the body--no bigger than a small doll, he said--of a beautiful lady. The
mournful procession moved forward to the sanctuary, where Richard
observed two tiny figures digging a wee grave quite close to the altar
table. When they had completed their task, the whole company
crowded around while the pale, lovely corpse was gently lowered into
the earth.
At this moment all the piskies burst into the saddest notes of
lamentation, tearing their wreaths and garlands asunder and casting the
flowers into the grave. Then one of the midget grave-diggers threw in a
shovelful of earth and the most piteous cry of sorrow went up from the
small folk, who wailed, "Our Queen is dead! Our Queen is dead!"
Old Richard was so much affected by this that he joined in the cry of
lamentation. But no sooner was his voice heard than all the lights were
extinguished and the piskies fled in consternation in every direction.
Richard himself was so much alarmed that he ran for his home, firmly
convinced that he was fortunate to have escaped with his life.
Lelant Church and the sand-hills remain to-day much as they were on
that long-ago midnight when Richard attended the piskie's funeral, but
nowadays the country round about has become one of the most
favoured, by visitors, in all Cornwall.

Lelant with its golf course, pretty Carbis Bay with its wonderful
bathing beach, and St. Ives, beloved of artists and those in search of
rest and health, a few miles further on, are all places that exercise the
strongest fascination for those who have once visited them. The district
is singularly attractive to the tourist; wild, rugged coast or grim
moorland scenery is to be found within easy walking distance, while
nestling in between the forbidding cliffs are pleasant sheltered sandy
coves where one may bathe in safety or laze away the sunny hours,
protected from the harsher winds that sweep the uplands.
Large modern hotels are to be found at St. Ives and Carbis Bay, and the
sailing and sea-fishing of the Hayle Estuary are as good as any in all
that favoured land of Cornwall.
[Illustration: Lelant Church]
[Illustration]

THE SPECTRE COACH
In the days of Good Queen Anne, the parson of Talland, a quaint little
sea-girt village near Looe, was a singular man named Dodge. Parson
Dodge's reputation in that neighbourhood was that of being able to lay
ghosts and command evil spirits, and although the country folk were
rather terrified of their vicar, they had the utmost faith in his
marvellous powers.
And it happened that the good folk of Lanreath, a few miles away, were
suffering severely from a wild spirit that frequented the high moor in
their parish. The ghost was that, they said, of an avaricious landowner
who had wasted his fortune in lawsuits, attempting unjustly to seize
from the villagers a wide stretch of common-land. Disappointment had
killed him, but in the spirit world he could find no rest, for he used to
return of nights to the land he had coveted, and drive wildly about in a
black coach drawn by six sable, headless horses, much to the terror of
the country folk.

So the rector of Lanreath decided at last to appeal to Parson Dodge to
come over and exorcise the wandering spirit. Parson Dodge agreed, and
upon the appointed night he and the rector rode out on to the haunted
moor to see what could be done about the bad business.
It was a grim, barren spot that they reached at last and the rector did not
at all like his task. But Parson Dodge bade him cheer up, saying that he
never yet met the ghost that he couldn't best. So the two parsons
dismounted and tramped up and down for an hour, expecting every
moment the arrival of the spectre coach.
When at last midnight had passed and nothing had happened, they
decided to abandon their vigil and return some other night. So, taking
leave of one another, they separated, the rector to take a short ride to
his home, Parson Dodge going a mile across the moor to the road that
led him back to Talland vicarage.
Dodge had been riding about five minutes when, without any apparent
reason, his mare shied, then stood stock-still. The parson tried to urge
her on, but she refused; then he dismounted and tried to lead her, but
that failed too. So he concluded that he must be intended to return, and,
remounting, he set the mare off back to the haunted moor.
She went cross-country through the murky night like the wind, and in