In the kitchen of her previous house in Fleet, Hampshire, about the year 1927, Mrs. Esme Fielding was leaning against a table facing: an old-fashioned range four feet away. It was the kind that had an oven each side, one of which she kept hot for cooking, while the other was always cool, with its door generally open about eight inches because the gardener used to put in it some wood to dry, which he had picked up in a copse behind the house and chopped up for kindling. A few hundred yards from the house was some rough land, part of which consisted of trees and wild rhododendrons; the other part was used as a golf-course. Mrs. Fielding said that the last thing she was thinking about was pixies, when partly out through the open door of the “wood-oven” came a little brown man about a foot high, and then, on seeing her, back he went into it. “That’s the only way I can describe him,” she said, “and that was the end of it! Could he really have been a brownie who had come in with the wood?” Marjorie Johnson, Seeing Fairies