(Signed) A. Briefless, Jun.
HOW KIPPER SLEW THE NEW FOREST HORNET.
Chapter I.—The Recluse.
Once upon a time there was a little goblin called Kipper, who lived the life of a hermit in a hollow oak-tree in the New Forest. He never made merry with the elves, and had a positive dislike to fairies; and, if any of them presumed to address him, he would curl himself into a ball like a hedgehog, and refuse to straighten himself until he was left alone again. Various rumours were current in Fairyland as to the reason of Kipper's moroseness. Some said that he had been robbed by an unscrupulous brother of a valuable iron mine, situated under Hengistbury Head; others, that he had been crossed in love; while there was a third party in Fairydom which stoutly maintained that he had been expelled from Goblinland on account of his desire to upset the king and queen, and establish a republic. Be that as it may, Kipper was no favourite in the country of his exile. Not that he need have been unsociable, for, when he first arrived, the greatest attention was paid to him by his neighbours. The most important personages in Fairydom called upon him, he received invitations to the Court balls, and he was bidden to several jolly bachelor parties given by the elves on the sward which surrounds Rufus's Stone.
"He thought nothing of taking a clump of dock leaves."
But Kipper made no response to these advances. He showed that he meant to be unsociable, and, little by little, the notabilities and landed gentry ceased to take any notice of him. Occasionally some of the sportsmen of The Court, when out hunting the slow-worms and the bumble-bees, would come across Kipper, mounted on a huge and vicious looking stagbeetle, which he managed with considerable address, but he never deigned to respond to their salutations, but passed on his way with a malevolent grin. Even the forest pigs and ponies took a dread of him at last, and would scamper away through the bracken directly they saw him approach. As to the deer, the pheasants, the rabbits, and the hares, they would just as soon have faced a poacher. It will be seen, therefore, that Kipper was not the sort of person to whom an elf or a fairy would appeal in case of distress. If he had a heart at all, it was like that of an artichoke, all choke—and very little arti. As far as human beings went, Kipper had a lofty disdain for them and their ways. He smiled contemptuously when the stagbeetle told him how the elves had stolen this cottager's milk, or robbed that verderer's garden of its gooseberries. And his sarcasm was equally pronounced when he heard how a fairy orchestra had serenaded the parson's pretty daughter on Midsummer Eve, or that some good-natured fays had collected the swarming bees of a hard-working farmer, and driven them home against the wishes of their queen. Kipper looked upon men, women, and children as wretched beings, who worried themselves without any necessity—poor creatures, whose only object in life appeared to be to endeavour to make one another miserable, and discontented with their very existence. Therefore he regarded them no more than he would newts and lizards. Indeed, he often told the stagbeetle that he had far more respect for a newt, because he could develop an orange waistcoat, whereas a man could not keep his chest warm without robbing another animal of its skin or wool. As to the lizards, they only came out when they could bask in the sun; whereas a man had to pick up and kindle sticks to keep his ugly body warm, and cook his poisonous food.
Now if Kipper could be said to enjoy anything, it was the leaping of big obstacles when mounted on the stagbeetle. He thought nothing of taking a clump of dock leaves, or of flying or sailing over a thick bush of prickly gorze. It cannot be said that the stagbeetle enjoyed the jumping as much as his master did; but inasmuch as the gnome had broken him in at an early age, and never rode without a pair of stout hawthorn pricks on his heels and a bramble switch in his hand, the coal-black steed had to make the best of a bad job. One fine day, however, when Kipper had partaken somewhat too freely of some fine wild honey, which he had found in an old oak, an accident occurred to the reckless, rash rider. On his way home he had to pass by Stoney Cross, and it so happened that the road was being mended, and a huge heap of granite lay by the wayside. Nothing would satisfy Kipper but that he must leap this mound, and so he told the stagbeetle to put forth all his strength. The poor creature besought his master not to risk both their lives, but Kipper was as hard as a pond after a six weeks frost. Gathering his rush-reins in his hands, and ramming the hawthorn pricks into the sides of the stagbeetle, he cried, "Hi! over," and went for the granite. The stagbeetle did his best, but just before he made his effort he faltered in his stride. The next moment he was kicking out with his hind legs, and his horns were sticking between two great stones on the top of the hard hillock; while a yard on the other side, among the moss and wild thyme, there was lying quite still the body of the luckless Kipper.