Grimspound

A woman standing by thought that she must be in a nightmare to see such a horrid sight.

But after she had pulled her pigtail to prove that she was awake, she ran screaming down the high street of Grimspound, and let it be known that the great warrior Futt had gone mad, and was killing the children at the gate.

Then the father of the children hastened out and met Futt, and used some rather strong new stone words, such as spitzelfritz, and biggleyfunk, and bluggergut.

which we have lost the art of pronouncing, if it can be considered a loss.

So after they had burnt Phut, for he decided before he died that he would be burnt, and then buried, Fum dropped the flint heart privately into his ashes.

And Phut slept under the heather, and the finest thing in cairns that you can well imagine was erected over him.

And everyone hoped with all their might that Phut's ghost would keep quiet and not come worrying around Grimspound afterwards on moonshiny nights.

And the thunder spirit did nothing, for he was busy somewhere else at the critical moment.

And now you will find, after all this time has passed, that it looks rather different.

The village of Grimspound is deserted.

The beehive roofs are gone, and only stones remain.

The men and women and children, the dogs and cattle and fierce beasts have all vanished.

In the low places, or snug spots sheltered under the hills and beside the sparkling rivers, many a house, such as you are accustomed to see, has sprung up.

There are farms and cottages, and even the pigs and cows have much better dwellings than the New Stoners were wont to live in.

One of those houses is called Merripit Farm, and it lies in the great valley under Merripit Hill, a few miles from the poor old ruined Grimspound.

There are a good many other farms in this valley, but long before men found the place, the pixies discovered it.

The infant new stoners flew in one direction, their knucklebones flew in another.

A woman standing by thought that she must be in a nightmare to see such a horrid sight, but after she had pulled her pigtail to prove that she was awake, she ran screaming down the high street of Grimspound and let it be known that the great warrior Futt had gone mad and was killing the children at the gate.

Then the father of the children hastened out and met Futt, and used some rather strong new stone words such as spitzelfritz and bigglyfunk and bluggergut.

which we have lost the art of pronouncing, if it can be considered a loss.

The foreigner very likely had only come from some town a few miles off.

In this case, however, he had come from rather a long way off, for he lived in London and was a very clever man.

"Yes," continued Mr. Jago, "a lean slip of a chap, long in the legs with a learning look at nose built for poking into things, and him terrible interested in they old roundy poundies up at Grimspound, and the old stones that the old men heaved up and stuck all over the moor.

And he've offered me 10 pound, 10 pound, if I'll do a job for him up upon top of Fur Tor." "10 pound, Father," cried Mrs.

He had learned and committed to his amazing memory two hundred and fourteen verses when there came a dreadful and fatal incursion of a tribe from Cosdon Beacon on the north side of Dartmoor.

They fell upon Grimspound by night, and because the new chief was an intelligent New Stoner who didn't like bloodshed, and believed that it was better far to rule by love than fear, and was, in fact, several thousand years ahead of his time, therefore he and his folk had to pay the usual penalty of being so much wiser than everybody else.

In fact, they all perished, and Grimspound ran streams of gore, and the scene was such that I hate even to think of it, and won't write a word more about it.

Then the conquering tribe started their empire day, and made their tinkling rhymes, and in their turn, after many years, gave place to other and stronger people, according to the way of things that changes never.

And now we drop the curtain for a moment, and alter the scenery a little, and give the moor time to rest and get over all those fearful troubles that Grimspound had seen.

The first act of the story of the Flint Heart is ended, and since there is an interval of five thousand years between the first act and the second, there ought to be plenty of time for you to have a sponge cake and a glass of ginger beer, if not a whole Christmas dinner, before we go on again.

End of chapter three.

A place like Dartmoor doesn't change in a hurry, but thousands and thousands of years leave a mark even there.