A Pixy in Petticoats by John Trevena

"Now we're getting into the land of pixies," quoth Beatrice, as she tried to lift a big shell which was lying sideways against a clump of heather. "This is the sixth. It must be from one of the new guns. My s'ars! it is heavy. I wonder what sort of a charge it takes to hurl a thing like this four or five miles?"

They had reached the side of Steeperton Cleave. There was not a living thing in sight. All around the peaty soil had been torn into pits and jagged fissures by projectiles. It was impossible to walk more than a few paces without seeing one of the ugly iron cylinders. A spectral figure stood near in the pose of a scarecrow. It was a dummy man. A well-aimed shell had pierced its wooden chest.