the South Devon folk used to look--as perhaps they still
do--towards the moor, and say to the children: 'Widdecombe hills are
picking their geese, faster, faster, faster.'

About twelve miles south-west of Widdecombe is Sheeps Tor, a sharply
defined height that has given its name to the parish and tiny village
that it overshadows. Originally it was called Shettes Tor--that is,
Steep Tor, the word being derived from the Celtic _syth_.

Hidden among the great piles of moorstone heaped upon the tor is a cave
known as the Pixies' House. Mrs Bray describes an expedition that she
made to Sheeps Tor, and how, on asking her way to the cave, she was told
to 'be careful to leave a pin, or something of equal value, as an
offering to these invisible beings; otherwise they would not fail to
torment us in our sleep.' Grass grows on the lower slopes, but near the
summit there spreads a 'bold and shelving sweep of about two hundred
feet, the granite ... totally bare, save where it was here and there
covered by a coating of mosses and lichens. It lies tossed about in
enormous masses in every direction.' The cave itself is in the midst of
'most confused masses of rock, that looked as if they had been tossed
about by the fiends in battle,' and the entrance itself is a 'cleft
between two rocks.' A story of human interest is also connected with the
cave, for here Walter Elford, Lord of the Manor, was forced to hide when
the country was being searched for him. Squire Elford was a
Parliamentarian, and one of the 'secluded' members of the Long
Parliament; but he was so far thrown into opposition by the development
of the Protector's policy that he reached the point of plotting against
him, and in consequence a party of Desborough's troops were sent in
pursuit of the squire to his own house. Fortunately, among the huge
boulders the entrance to the cave was very difficult to find, and the
Pixies' House proved a safe refuge until the search-parties were
withdrawn.

About fifteen miles from Widdecombe, on the north-west side of the moor,
lies Lydford, whose size is in no way proportionate to its antiquity.
'Doubtless,' says Risdon, 'in the Saxons' heptarchy, it was a town of
some note, that felt the furious rage of the merciless Danes.' And it is
true that in 997 Lydford was burned down by them. At this time Lydford
had its own mint, and money was coined here; and in the Domesday Book it
was described as being taxed equally with London. But the