"Have you written down any more Devonshire folk-tales?" she asked once.
"I do so love your stories of the neighbourhood. It makes the pixies seem
almost real when you tell about them!"
"They seemed real to the old people from whom I heard them years ago, and
who had learnt them from their grandfathers and great-grandfathers. I
loved them when I was a child. Yes; they're written in my little
manuscript book. I put them carefully down for fear I might forget them.
Read you one? If the others would like it! We haven't had a fairy tale
for quite a long time, have we, Doreen?"
As the younger children plumped for a story, Miss Pollard fetched her
manuscript volume, and hunted for something they had not yet heard. She
was a most excellent reader, having that charm of voice and vividness of
expression which makes a narrative live before its hearers. It was as if
some electric cord linked her with those who listened, and restless
little fidgets would sit quite quietly for as long as she chose to go on.
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