The Miner’s Sprite.
The Wanderer was lying in a quiet meadow in a mining district. It was a lovely summer’s evening; tall trees and a church tower not far off stood out dark against a crimson sky, for the sun had but just gone down. I was seated reading on the back steps, and all alone.
“Peas, sir,” said a voice close to me; “peas, sir.”
“I don’t buy peas,” I replied, looking up in some surprise, for I’d heard no footstep.
“Peas, sir,” persisted the child—“I mean, if oo peas, sir, I’ve come to see your talavan.”
What a sprite she looked! What a gnome! Her little face and hands and bare legs and feet were black with coal dust, only her lips were pink. When she smiled she showed two rows of little pearly teeth, and her eyes were very large and lustrous. I took all this in at a glance, and could not help noticing the smallness of her feet and hands and ears.
“Take my hand and help me up the stails. Be twick.” I did as I was told, and everything inside was duly criticised and admired. She sat on a footstool, and told me a deal about herself. She spent all the day in the mine, she said, playing and singing, and everybody loved her, and was so “dood” to her.
She lived with her pa and ma in a cottage she pointed to.
“But,” she added, “my pa isn’t my real faddel (father), and ma isn’t my real muddel (mother).” Here was a mystery.
“And where is your real father and mother?”