felling; latterly, however, he is said to have grown churlish and
malignant. The reckless felling of young trees for fencing and pit-props
is supposed to have roused his ill-will, and sinister stories have been
told of children who have gone into the woods for acorns or hazel-nuts
and have never been seen again.

It was in the Bowland Forest district, which is watered by the Ribble
and its tributary becks, that I heard the fullest account of Melsh Dick;
and the following story was communicated to me by an old peasant whose
forefathers had for generations been woodmen in Bowland Forest. The
region where he lived is rich in legend, and not far away is the old
market town of Gisburn, where Guy of that ilk fought with Robin Hood,
and where, until the middle of the nineteenth century, a herd of the
wild cattle of England roamed through the park.

"Fowks tell a mak o' tales about witches, barguests, an' sike-like," Owd
Dont began, "but I tak no count o' all their clash; I reckon nowt o'
tales without they belang my awn family. But what I's gannin to tell you
is what I've heerd my mother say, aye scores o' times; so you'll know
it's true. A gradely lass were my mother, an' noan gien to leein', like
some fowks I could name. There's owd lasses nowadays, gie 'em a sup o'
chatter-watter an' a butter-shive, an' they'll tell you tales that would
fotch t' devil out o' his den to hark tul 'em."

After this attack upon the licence of the tea-table, Owd Dont needed a
long draught of March ale to regain his composure. I knew that it was
worse than useless to attempt to hurry him in his narrative. Leisurely
at the start, the pace of his stories quickened considerably as he
warmed to his work, and it was not without reason that he had acquired a
reputation of being the best story-teller on the long settle of the Ring