AMELIA AND THE DWARFS.
My godmother’s grandmother knew a good deal about the fairies. Her grandmother had seen a fairy rade on a Rodmas Eve, and she herself could remember a copper vessel of a queer shape which had been left by the elves on some occasion at an old farm-house among the hills. The following story came from her, and where she got it I do not know. She used to say it was a pleasant tale, with a good moral in the inside of it. My godmother often observed that a tale without a moral was like a nut without a kernel, not worth the cracking. (We called fireside stories “cracks” in our part of the country.) This is the tale.