A Pixy in Petticoats by John Trevena

Beatrice had promised to meet Burrough at the moor gate on Monday morning, that they might start for Cranmere. The weather was gloriously fine. There was scarcely any breeze. A better morning could not have fallen to their lot. Burrough felt curiously elate while he made his preparations for wandering into the wilderness. He talked all the time to the lineal descendant of the great Grimalkin, who occupies the same position among the feline race of the West Country as is held by King Arthur in the minds of men.

"This is a great day, King o' the Cats. A day to be noted by red letters and marked with a white stone. I'm going a roaming across rivers and rocks, through bogs and quags; and she is coming too. The Queen of Trevalyor is coming, Peterkin. She likes me a little -- she must, or she wouldn't be alone with me all day. I'm not too old after all. What's thirty-five when you feel strong and well, and look it too? I'm young, my brindled monarch. I'm still a boy. No wrinkles yet, no grey hairs. I am not yet old enough to make my own living. If that is not a sign of infancy, what is? Out of the way, or I shall tread upon your royal tail. It pleases us to be merry to-day, for we have issued our decree commanding our loving subjects to make holiday. Don't you hear the pixies scampering up and down the gorge? They are crying as loud as they can, ‘Ho and away for Cranmere Pool."