Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard/Prologue I

ONE morning in April Martin Pippin walked in the meadows near Adversane, and there he saw a young fellow sowing a field with oats broadcast. So pleasant a sight was enough to arrest Martin for an hour, though less important things, such as making his living, could not occupy him for a minute. So he leaned upon the gate, and presently noticed that for every handful he scattered the young man shed as many tears as seeds, and now and then he stopped his sowing altogether, and putting his face between his hands sobbed bitterly. When this had happened three or four times, Martin hailed the youth, who was then fairly close to the gate.

'Young master!' said he, 'the baker of this crop will want no salt to his baking, and that's flat.'

The young man dropped his hands and turned his brown and tear-stained countenance upon the Minstrel. He was so young a man that he wanted his beard.

'They who taste of my sorrow,' he replied, 'will have no stomach for bread.'

And with that he fell anew to his sowing and sighing, and passed up the field.

When he came down again Martin observed, 'It must be a very bitter sorrow that will put a man off his dinner.'

'It is the bitterest,' said the youth, and went his way.

At his next coming Martin inquired, 'What is the name of your sorrow?'

'Love,' said the youth. By now he was somewhat distant from the gate when he came abreast of it, and Martin Pippin did not catch the word. So he called loudly:

'What?'

'Love!' shouted the youth. His voice cracked on it. He appeared slightly annoyed. Martin chewed a grass and watched him up and down the meadow.

At the right moment he bellowed–

'I was never yet put off my feed by love.'

'Then,' roared the youth, 'you have never loved.'

At this Martin jumped over the gate and ran along the furrow behind the boy.

'I have loved,' he vowed, 'as many times as I have tuned lute-strings.'

'Then,' said the youth, not turning his head, 'you have never loved in vain.'

'Always, thank God!' said Martin fervently.

The youth, whose name was Robin Rue, suddenly dropped all his seed in one heap, flung up his arms, and–

'Alas!' he cried. 'Oh, Gillian! Gillian!' And began to sob more heavily than ever.

'Tell me your trouble,' said the Minstrel kindly.

'Sir,' said the youth, 'I do not know your name, and your clothes are very tattered. But you are the first who has cared whether or no my heart should break since my lovely Gillian was locked with six keys into her father's well-house, and six young milkmaids, sworn virgins and man-haters all, to keep the keys.'

'The thirsty,' said Martin, 'make little of padlocks when within a rope's length of water.'

'But, sir,' continued the youth earnestly, 'this well-house is set in the midst of an apple orchard enclosed in a hawthorn hedge full six foot high, and no entrance thereto but one small green wicket, bolted on the inner side.'

'Indeed?' said Martin.

'And worse to come. The length of the hedge there is a great duck-pond, nine yards broad, and three wild ducks swimming on it. Alas!' he cried, 'I shall never see my lovely girl again!'

'Love is a mighty power,' said Martin Pippin, 'but there are doubtless things it cannot do.'

'I ask so little,' sighed Robin Rue. 'Only to send her a primrose for her hair-band, and have again whatever flower she wears there now.'

'Would this really content you?' said Martin Pippin.

'I would then consent to live,' swore Robin Rue, 'long enough at all events to make an end of my sowing.'

'Well, that would be something,' said Martin cheerfully, 'for fields must not go fallow that are appointed to bear. Direct me to your Gillian's apple orchard.'

'It is useless,' Robin said. 'For even if you could cross the duck-pond, and evade the ducks, and compass the green gate, my sweetheart's father's milkmaids are not to be come over by any man; and they watch the well-house day and night.'

'Yet direct me to the orchard,' repeated Martin Pippin, and thrummed his lute a little.

'Oh, sir,' said Robin anxiously, 'I must warn you that it is a long and weary way, it may be as much as two mile by the road.' And he looked disconsolately at the Minstrel, as though in fear that he would be discouraged from the adventure.

'It can but be attempted,' answered Martin, 'and now tell me only whether I go north or south as the road runs.'

'Gillman the farmer, her father,' said Robin Rue, 'has moreover a very big stick–'

'Heaven help us!' cried Martin, and took to his heels.

'That ends it!' sighed the sorry lover.

'At least let us make a beginning!' quoth Martin Pippin.

He leaped the gate, mocked at a cuckoo, plucked a primrose, and went singing up the road.

Robin Rue resumed his sowing and his tears.

'Maids,' said Joscelyn, 'what is this coming across the duck-pond?'

'It is a man,' said little Joan.

The six girls came running and crowding to the wicket, standing a-tiptoe and peeping between each other's sunbonnets. Their sunbonnets and their gowns were as green as lettuce-leaves.

'Is he coming on a raft?' asked Jessica, who stood behind.

'No,' said Jane, 'he is coming on his two feet. He has taken off his shoes, but I fear his breeches will suffer.'

'He is giving bread to the ducks,' said Jennifer.

'He has a lute on his back,' said Joyce.

'Man!' cried Joscelyn, who was the tallest and the sternest of the milkmaids, 'go away at once!'

Martin Pippin was by now within arm's-length of the green gate. He looked with pleasure at the six virgins fluttering in their green gowns, and peeping bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked under their green bonnets. Beyond them he saw the forbidden orchard, with cuckoo-flower and primrose, daffodil and celandine, silver windflower and sweet violets blue and white, spangling the gay grass. The twisted apple-trees were in young leaf.

'Go away!' cried all the milkmaids in a breath. 'Go away!'

'My green maidens,' said Martin, 'may I not come into your orchard? The sun is up, and the shadow lies fresh on the grass. Let me in to rest a little, dear maidens–if maidens indeed you be, and not six leaflets blown from the apple-branches.'

'You cannot come in,' said Joscelyn, 'because we are guarding our master's daughter, who sits yonder weeping in the well-house.'

'That is a noble and a tender duty,' said Martin. 'From what do you guard her?'

The milkmaids looked primly at one another, and little Joan said, 'It is a secret.'

Martin. I will ask no more. And what do you do all day long?

Joyce. Nothing, and it is very dull.

Martin. It must be still duller for your master's daughter.

Joan. Oh, no, she has her thoughts to play with.

Martin. And what of your thoughts?

Joscelyn. We have no thoughts. I should think not indeed!

Martin. I beg your pardon. But since you find the hours so tedious, will you not let me sing and play to you upon my lute? I will sing you a song for a spring morning, and you shall dance in the grass like any leaf in the wind.

Jane. I think there can be no harm in that.

Jessica. It can't matter a straw to Gillian.

Joyce. She would not look up from her thoughts though we footed it all day.

Joscelyn. So long as he is on one side of the gate–

Jennifer. –and we on the other.

'I love to dance,' said little Joan.

'Man!' cried the milkmaids in a breath, 'play and sing to us!'

'Oh, maidens,' answered Martin merrily, 'every tune deserves its fee. But don't look so troubled–my hire shall be of the lightest. Let me see! You shall fetch me the flower from the hair of your little mistress who sits weeping on the coping with her face hidden in her shining locks.'

At this the milkmaids clapped their hands, and little Joan, running to the well-house, with a touch like thistledown drew from the weeper's yellow hair a yellow primrose. She brought it to the gate and laid it in Martin's hand.

'Now you will play for us, won't you?' said she. 'A dance for a spring morning when the leaves dance on the apple-trees.'

Then Martin tuned his lute and played and sang as follows, while the girls took hands and danced in a green chain among the twisty trees.

'The green leaf dances now, The green leaf dances now, The green leaf with its tilted wings Dances on the bough, And every rustling air Says, I've caught you, caught you, Leaf with tilted wings, Caught you in a snare! Whose snare? Spring's, That bound you to the bough Where you dance now, Dance, but cannot fly, For all your tilted wings Pointing to the sky: Where like martins you would dart But for Spring's delicious art That caught you to the bough, Caught, yet left you free To dance if not to fly–oh, see! As you are dancing now, Dancing on the bough, Dancing on the bough, Dancing with your tilted wings On the apple-bough.'

Now as Martin sang and the milkmaids danced, it seemed that Gillian in her prison heard and saw nothing except the music and the movement of her sorrows. But presently she raised her hand and touched her hairband, and then she lifted up the fairest face Martin had ever seen, so that he needs must see it nearer; and he took the green gate in one stride, and the green dancers never observed him. Then Gillian's tender mouth parted like an opening quince-blossom, and–

'Oh, mother, mother!' she said, 'if you had only lived, they would not have stolen the flower from my hair while I sat weeping.'

Above her head a whispering voice made answer, 'Oh, daughter, daughter, dry your sweet eyes. You shall wear this other flower when yours is gone over the duck-pond to Adversane.'

And lo! a second primrose dropped out of the skies into her lap. And that day the lovely Gillian wept no more.