The Little Folk on the Hill
Right on the top of the Feraling Hill
There’s a queer little seat made of stone,
And sometimes I climb up the heathery slope.
And sit in the wind all alone.
Nobody knows why the little seat’s there,
(It’s almost too tiny for me)
But I love to squeeze into it on a clear day,
And look over the hills to the sea.
Sometimes I’ve sat there and heard funny
sounds
And voices, and tho’ I’ve kept still,
I’ve only seen one of the queer Little Folk
That I know live inside of the hill.
For once I came quietly up to the stone—
And on it sat one of the Folk!
He was looking across all the hills to the sea,
But he vanished away when I spoke.
And that’s how I know why the little seat’s
there,
And why it’s small even for me;
The Folk put it there in the wind, for they love
To look over the hills to the sea.