Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard Eleanor Farjeon (books for 7th graders .TXT) 📖

"Three times a day," said Martin, "I am honestly hungry."

So they had supper.

Supper done, they clustered as usual about the story-telling tree, and Martin looked inquiringly from Jane to Joscelyn and from Joscelyn to Jane. And Joscelyn's expression was one of uncontrolled indifference, and Jane's expression was one of bridled excitement. So Martin ignored Joscelyn and asked Jane what she was thinking about.

"A great number of things, Master Pippin," said she. "There is always so much to think about."

"Is there?" said Martin.

"Oh, surely you know there is. How could you tell stories else?"

"I never think when I tell stories," said Martin. "I give them a push and let them swing."

"Oh but," said Jane, "it is very dangerous to speak without thinking. One might say anything."

"One does," agreed Martin, "and then anything happens. But people who think before speaking often end by saying nothing. And so nothing happens."

"Perhaps it's as well," said Joyce slyly.

"Yet the world must go round, Mistress Joyce. And swings were made to swing. Do you think, Mistress Jane, if you sat in the swing I should think twice, or even once, before giving it a push?"

Jane considered this, and then said gravely, "I think, Master Pippin, you would have to think at least once before pushing the swing to-night; because it isn't there."

"What a wise little milkmaid you are," said Martin, looking about for the skipping-ropes.

"Yes," said Jessica, "Jane is wiser than any of us. She is extremely wise. I wonder you hadn't noticed it."

"Oh, but I had," said Martin earnestly, fixing the swinging ropes to their places. "There, Mistress Jane, let me help you in, and I will give you a push."

He offered her his hand respectfully, and Jane took it saying, "I don't like swinging very high."

"I will think before I push," said Martin. And when she was settled, with her skirts in order and her little feet tucked back, he rocked the swing so gently that not an apple fell nor a milkmaid slipped, clambering to her place. And Martin leaned back in his and shut his eyes.

"We are waiting," observed Joscelyn overhead.

"So am I," sighed Martin.

"For what?"

"For a push."

"But you're not swinging."

"Neither's my story. And it will take seven pair of arms to set it going." And he fixed his eyes on Gillian in her sorrow, but she did not lift her face.

"Here's six to start the motion of themselves," said Joscelyn, "and it only remains to you to attract the seventh willy-nilly."

"It were easier," said Martin, "to unlock Saint Peter's Gates with cowslips."

"I was not talking of impossibilities, Master Pippin," said Joscelyn.

"Why, neither was I," said Martin; "for did you never hear that cowslips, among all the golden flowers of spring, are the Keys of Heaven?"

And sending a little chime from his lute across the Well-House he sang--

She lost the keys of heaven Walking in a shadow, Sighing for her lad O She lost her keys of heaven. She saw the boys and girls who flocked Beyond the gates all barred and locked-- And oh! sighed she, the locks are seven Betwixt me and my lad O, And I have lost my keys of heaven Walking in a shadow. She found the keys of heaven All in a May meadow, Singing for her lad O She found her keys of heaven. She found them made of cowslip gold Springing seven-thousandfold-- And oh! sang she, ere fall of even Shall I not be wed O? For I have found my keys of heaven All in a May meadow.

By the end of the song Gillian was kneeling upright among the mallows, and with her hands clasped under her chin was gazing across the duckpond.

"Well, well!" exclaimed Joscelyn, "cowslips may, or may not, have the power to unlock the heavenly gates. But there's no denying that a very silly song has unlocked our Mistress's lethargy. So I advise you to seize the occasion to swing your tale on its way."

"Then here goes," said Martin, "and I only pray you to set your sympathies also in motion while I endeavor to keep them going with the story of Proud Rosalind and the Hart-Royal."

PROUD ROSALIND AND THE HART-ROYAL

There was once, dear maidens, a man-of-all-trades who lived by the Ferry at Bury. And nobody knew where he came from. For the chief of his trades he was an armorer, for it was in the far-away times when men thought danger could only be faced and honor won in a case of steel; not having learned that either against danger or for honor the naked heart is the fittest wear. So this man, whose name was Harding, kept his fires going for men's needs, and women's too; for besides making and mending swords and knives and greaves for the one, he would also make brooches and buckles and chains for the other; and tools for the peasants. They sometimes called him the Red Smith. In person Harding was ruddy, though his fairness differed from the fairness of the natives, and his speech was not wholly their speech. He was a man of mighty brawn and stature, his eyes gleamed like blue ice seen under a fierce sun, the hair of his head and his beard glittered like red gold, and the finer hair on his great arms and breast overlaid with an amber sheen the red-bronze of his skin. He seemed a man made to move the mountains of the world; yet truth to tell, he was a most indifferent smith.

(Martin: Are you not quite comfortable, Mistress Jane?

Jane: I am perfectly comfortable, thank you, Master Pippin.

Martin: I fancied you were a trifle unsettled.

Jane: No, indeed. What would unsettle me?

Martin: I haven't the ghost of a notion.)

I have heard gossips tell, but it has since been forgotten or discredited, that this part of the river was then known as Wayland's Ferry; for this, it was said, was one of the several places in England where the spirit lurked of Wayland the Smith, who was the cunningest worker in metal ever