Some half century ago [c. 1810?] there lived on the downs above Sparnick, an industrious hard-working tailor, well-known in all the district around, named William D—-. One evening after a long day’s work he set out from Calenick to walk to his home; it was then a far more lonely walk than now – over bare bleak downs, and through retired lanes – but he walked steadily on through the deepening twilight. As he approaches Kea churchyard, the night wind coughs dismally through the spreading branches of the pines with a weird eerie sound, and he redoubles his pace to pass the sooner the gloomy spot; when, as he nears the church stile, he is startled by seeing a troop of piskies suddenly appear; they were about eighteen inches high, and all dressed alike, with high, sugar loaf black hats, and little red cloaks. These wee folk descend the low bank from the open common at a run, rapidly cross the road in single file, ascend the hedge and disappear into the dim churchyard beyond. Startled by the sudden apparition, he pauses a moment, then dashes his heavy stick after the fairy crew, and climbs the fence, but no sign or vestige of the troop can anywhere be seen; they have vanished from sight as rapidly as they appeared. One long look around and then he hurries home hotfoot, to spread the tale to the wondering neighbours, which he often repeated, of how he saw the Piskies at Kea churchyard (Young ‘Three Cornish Fairy Notes’ 2012).