A Pixy in Petticoats by John Trevena

Burrough was not going to be made a fool of again. Upon that point his mind was perfectly clear. He did not intend to pursue the elusive vision of Beatrice across the moor and be made the butt of her holiday humour. What was the good, he argued, of going to the blacksmith's? Probably she would not be there. He might only be making himself more ridiculous than ever. His course was clear -- he must go for a walk in the opposite direction. This conclusion having been arrived at, he cleaned his little kettle, packed it into a basket, and went with quite unnecessary haste towards the blacksmith's.

The spot selected by Beatrice was hardly as civilised as its name suggested. It was nothing but a stone ruin beside the river Taw, encircled by solitude and clatters of moss-covered granite. According to tradition, a blacksmith had lived there once amid the silent shadows of the grey rocks, but it was not known what employment had come to him in that moorland fastness so far from the haunts of men. He could have had neither horse to shoe nor implement to forge. Perhaps he was an elfin blacksmith, enjoying the royal patronage of the king of the pixies, who, as every wise man's son knew well, held court upon Cranmere. There was a delightfully smooth stretch of turf in front of the ruin. His Majesty played bowls with his favourite courtiers there "under the cold and chaste light of the moon. " His playthings were big spheres of granite. No doubt the blacksmith made them, breaking the rough blocks off the tors with his iron bar, and shaping them in his forge with chisel and hammer.