Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard by Eleanor Farjeon (top 10 novels to read .TXT) 📗

dark head, like the cotton-tail of a rabbit, and as well as corduroy breeches he wore a rabbit-skin waistcoat, and he was a great nuisance to gamekeepers, who called him a poacher; whereas all he did was to let the rabbits out of the snares when it was kind to, and destroy the snares. And he used the bring "bunny-rabbits" (which other people call snapdragons) of the loveliest colors to plant in the little garden known as Joan's Corner. I should like to tell you more about Charles (but there isn't time) because I am fond of him. If I hadn't been I shouldn't have let him have Joan.

EPILOGUE

At cockcrow came the call which in that orchard was now as familiar as the rooster's.

"Maids! Maids! Maids!"

Martin Pippin was leaning over the green wicket throwing jam tarts to the ducks. Because in the Well-House Gillian had not left so much as a crumb. But when he heard Old Gillman's voice, he flicked a bull's-eye at the drake, getting it very accurately on the bill, and walked across to the gap.

"Good morning, master," said Martin cheerfully. "Pray how does Lemon, Joscelyn's Sussex, fare?"

Old Gillman put down his loaves with great deliberation, and spent a few minutes taking Martin in. Then he answered, "There's scant milk to a Sussex, and allus will be. And if there was not, there'd be none to Joscelyn's Lemon. And if there was, it would take more than Henry to draw it. And so that's you, is it?"

"That's me," said Martin Pippin.

"Well," said Old Gillman, "I've spent the best of six mornings trying not to see ye. And has my daughter taken the right road yet?"

"Yes, master," said Martin, "she has taken the road to Adversane."

"Which SHE'S spent the best of six months trying not to see," said Old Gillman. "Women's a nuisance. Allus for taking the long cut round."

"I've known many a short cut," said Martin, "to end in a blind alley."

"Well, well, so long as they gets there," grunted Gillman. "And what's this here?"

"A pair of steps," said Martin.

"What for?" said Gillman.

"Milkmaids and milkmen," said Martin.

"So they maids have cut too, have they?"

"It was a full moon, you see."

"I dessay. But if they'd gone by the stile they could have hopped it in the dark six months agone," said Old Gillman. And he got over the stile, which was the other way into the orchard and has not been mentioned till now, and came and clapped Martin on the shoulder.

"Women's more trouble," said he, "than they're worth."

"They're plenty of trouble," said Martin; "I've never discovered yet what they're worth."

"We'll not talk of em more. Come up to the house for a drink, boy," said Old Gillman.

Martin said pleasantly, "You can drink milk now, master, to your heart's content. Or even water." And he walked over to the Well-House, and pointed invitingly to the bucket.

Old Gillman followed him with one eye open. "It's too late for that, boy. When you've turned toper for six months, after sixty sober years, it'll take you another six to drop the habit. That's what these daughters do for their dads. But we'll not talk of em." He stood beside Martin and stared down at the padlock. "How did the pretty go?"

"In the swing, like a swift."

"Why not through the gate like a gal?"

"The keys wouldn't turn."

"Which way?"

"The right way."

"You should ha' tried em the wrong way, boy."

"That would have locked it," said Martin.

"Azactly," said Old Gillman; and slipped the padlock from the staple and put it in his pocket. "Come along up now."

Martin followed him through the orchard and the paddock and the garden and the farmyard to the house. He noticed that everything was in the pink of condition. But as he passed the stables he heard the cows lowing badly.

The farm-kitchen was a big one. It had all the things that go to make the best farm-kitchens: such as red bricks and heavy smoke- blackened beams, and a deep hearth with a great fire on it and settles inside, from which one could look up at the chimney-shaft to the sky, and clay pipes and spills alongside, and a muller for wine or beer; and hams and sides of bacon and strings on onions and bunches of herbs; much pewter, and a copper warming-pan, and brass candlesticks, and a grandfather clock; a cherrywood dresser and wheelback chairs polished with age; and a great scrubbed oaken table to seat a harvest-supper, planed from a single mighty plank. It was as clean as everything else in that good room, but all the scrubbing would not efface the circular stains wherever men had sat and drunk; and that was all the way round and in the middle. There were mugs and a Toby jug upon it now. Old Gillman filled two of the mugs, and lifted one to Martin, and Martin echoed the action like a looking- glass. And they toasted each other in good Audit Ale.

"Well," said Old Gillman stuffing his pipe, "it's been a peaceful time, and now us must just see how things go."

"They look shipshape enough at the moment," said Martin.

"Ah," said Old Gillman shaking his head, "that's the lads. They're good lads when you let em alone. But what it'll be now they maids get meddling again us can't foretell. It were bad enough afore, wi' their quarrelsomeness and their shilly-shally. It sends all things to rack and ruin."

"What does?" said Martin.

"This here love." Old Gillman refilled his mug. "We'll not talk of it. She were a handy gal afore Robin began unmaking her mind along of his own. Lord! why can't these young things be plain and say what they want, and get it? Wasn't I plain wi' her mother?"

"Were you?" said Martin.

"Ah, worse luck!" said Gillman, "and me a happy bachelor as I was. What did I want wi' a minx about the place?" He filled his mug again.

"What do any of us?" said Martin. "These women are the deuce."

"They are," said Gillman. "We'll not