‘Yes,’ answered the great black bird with a croak, and when he had said that he took to his wings and flew away as fast as he could fly over Goonzion Downs, the way he had come.
‘That wisht-looking crow did not tell the old whiddle half bad,’ said Jim to himself, as he watched the bird fly away. ‘Shouldn’t I like to have seen this old pound full of crows! It must have been terribly funny when St. Neot looked in upon them and cried, “My goodness! what a lot of crows!” It must have been as good as a Christmas play. There, father is coming. That sharp-eyed old crow must have seen him climbing the hill.’
[1] Tale.
The Piskeys’ Revenge
Once upon a time, so the old story begins, there were an old man and his wife called Granfer and Grannie Nankivell, who lived on a moor, and a small grand-daughter who lived with them.
Genefer was the name of this little girl. She was a small brown child. Brown as a Piskey, her grandfather said; but, brown as she was, she was exceedingly pretty. Her lips were as red as the reddest of berries, and the glow on her cheeks matched her lips.
Her grandfather was a turf-cutter, and most of his days had been spent cutting turf on the Cornish moors.