Legend Land, Volume 2 | Page 9

a
very few minutes Dodge was again on the spot where he had left his
brother priest. There the mare shied once more and showed every sign
of fear, and the parson, looking about him, espied a short distance off
the gruesome spectre he had originally come to meet.
There was the sooty-black coach, the dark, headless steeds, and, what
thoroughly alarmed him, a grim cloaked figure urging his team at a
gallop along a path in which lay the prostrate form of his friend the
rector of Lanreath.
Parson Dodge set his mare, despite her fears, straight for the
approaching coach, uttering his prayers of exorcism the while. With the
first words the dusky team swerved and a sepulchral voice came from
the driver, saying: "Dodge is come! I must be gone." With that the

spirit whipped up his horses and disappeared at a tremendous pace
across the moor, and was never seen again.
The parson then dismounted and was able to revive the unconscious
rector and carry him safely home, for his own horse, startled at the
appearance of the spectre, had thrown its rider and bolted.
Talland, the home of the old parson, is a fascinating little village on the
coast, between the two Looes--East and West--and picturesque
Polperro, where rugged cliffs on either side descend to form a sheltered
little bay.
Looe is a quaint fishing town straggling on each side of the estuary of
the river of the same name. You reach it by a branch railway from
Liskeard, on the Great Western main line. It is an ideal place in which
to spend a quiet holiday. The coast east and west is typically Cornish,
rugged and wild, yet pierced every few miles by some sheltered cove or
inlet.
Looe itself, protected from the cold winds, enjoys a beautiful climate,
particularly mild in winter. Coast and moorland walks abound; there is
a golf course close at hand, and the sea fishing is excellent.
[Illustration: Talland Church]
[Illustration]

ST. NEOT, THE PIGMY SAINT
Of all the vast company of saints peculiar to Cornwall, St. Neot is
surely the strangest, for he was, so the old traditions have it, a pigmy,
perfectly formed, yet only fifteen inches in height. There are very many
stories told of this tiny holy man, and most of them seem to show that
he wielded a great power over all animals.
One of the prettiest stories is of the time when St. Neot presided over
his abbey and there came one night thieves to the monastic farm and

stole all the monks' plough oxen. The poor brothers had not the money
to purchase other beasts, and seed-time was upon them with their fields
yet unploughed. Ruin seemed certain until the good little abbot
appealed to the wild beasts to come to their aid. And then, to the
amazement of the monks, there came from the surrounding forests wild
stags, who docilely offered their necks to the yoke and drew the heavy
ploughs.
Each night the stags were released, and they went off to the woods; but
each succeeding morning they returned to continue their task.
The news of this miraculous happening spread rapidly abroad and came
at last to the ears of the thieves. They were so deeply impressed by the
story that they returned the stolen oxen at once and promised never
again to pursue their evil ways. So the stags were released from their
self-appointed labour, but ever after, they say, each bore a white ring
like a yoke about its neck, and each enjoyed a charmed life, for no
arrow or spear of a hunter could hurt it.
Another story that is told is that of St. Neot and the hunted doe. While
the good saint was seated in contemplation by his well, there burst from
the woods a doe pursued by hounds and huntsmen. The poor beast was
exhausted and sank down by the saint as if imploring his protection.
The tiny saint rose and faced the oncoming pack, which instantly
turned and dashed back into the forest. Presently the huntsmen
approached with drawn bows, prepared to dispatch the frightened
quarry. But they too, at the sight of the saint, desisted, and the chief of
them, falling upon his knees, cast away his quiver and besought the
Holy Neot to receive him into the Church.
This man, they say, became a monk at the monastery of St. Petroc at
Bodmin, and the hunting-horn which he carried on the day of his
conversion was hung for many years in St. Neot's church.
Many of the stories of this saint are depicted in the mediæval
stained-glass windows of the parish church of St. Neot, a pretty village
nestling under the southern slopes of the Bodmin Moor. This church

has one of the