Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard by Eleanor Farjeon (best new books to read txt) 📕

if what is the heart's desire can ever be idle. So I will sit behind the curtain no longer, and if you will let me I will follow you to the ends of Sussex till the Murray River be found, or we be dead.' And I says Jump, lass!' and down she jumps and puts up her mouth." Gillman filled his mug.

Martin filled his. "Well," said he, "a man must take his bull by the horns. And did you ever succeed in finding the Murray River?"

"Wi' a child's help. It can only be found by a child's help. Tis the child's river of all Sussex. Any child can help you to it."

"Yes," said Martin, "and all children know it."

Old Gillman put down his mug. "Do YOU know it, boy?"

"I live by it," said Martin Pippin, "when I live anywhere."

"Do children play in it still?" asked Gillman.

"None but children," said Martin Pippin. "And above all the child which boys and girls are always rediscovering in each other's hearts, even when they've turned gray in other folks' sight. And at the end of it is a mystery."

"She were a child to the end," said Old Gillman. "A fair nuisance, so she were. And Jill takes after her."

"Well, SHE'S off your hands anyhow," said Martin getting up. "She's to be some other body's nuisance now, and your maids have come back to their milking."

"Ah, have they?" grunted Gillman. "The lads did it better. And they cooked better. And they cleaned better. There is nothing men cannot do better than women."

"I know it," said Martin Pippin, "but it would be unkind to let on."

"Then we'll wash our hands of em. But don't go, boy," said Old Gillman. "Talking of Sloe Gin--"

Martin sat down again.

They talked of Sloe Gin for a very long time. They did not agree about it. They got out some bottles to see if they could not manage to agree. Martin thought one bottle hadn't enough sugar-candy in it, so they put in some more; and Old Gillman thought another bottle hadn't enough gin in it, so they also put in some more. But they couldn't get it right, though they tried and tried. Old Gillman thought it should be filtered drop by drop seventy times through seven hundred sheets of blotting-paper, but Martin thought seven hundred times through seventy sheets was better; and Martin thought it should then be kept for seven thousand years, but Old Gillman thought seven years sufficient. But neither of these points had ever been really proved, and was not that day.

After this, as they couldn't reach an agreement, they changed the subject to rum punch, and argued a good deal as to the right quantities of lemon and sugar and nutmeg; and whether it was or was not improved by the addition of brandy, and how much; and an orange or so, and how many; and a tangerine, if you had it; and a tot of gin, if you had it left. Yet in this case too the most repeated practice proved as inadequate as the most confirmed theory.

So after a bit Old Gillman said, "This is child's play, boy. After all, there's but one drink for kings and men. Give us a song over our cup, and I'll sing along o' ye."

"Right," said Martin, "if you can fetch me the only cup worthy to sing over."

"What cup's that, boy?"

"What but a kingcup?" said Martin.

"A king once drank from this," said Gillman, fetching down a goblet as golden as ale. "He looked like a shepherd, and had a fold just across the road, but he was a king for all that. So strike up."

"After me, then," said Martin; and they pushed the cup between them, and the song too.

Martin: What shall we drink of when we sup? Gillman: What d'ye say to the King's own cup? Martin: What's the drink? Gillman: What d'ye think? Martin: Farmer, say! Water? Gillman: Nay! Martin: Wine? Gillman: Aye! Martin: Red wine? Gillman: Fie! Martin: White wine? Gillman: No! Martin: Yellow wine? Gillman: Oh! Martin: What in fine, What wine then? Gillman: The only wine That's fit for men Who drink of the King's Cup when they dine, And that is the Old Brown Barley Wine! >From This I'll drink ye high, Point I I'll drink ye low, Don't Know Till the stars run dry Which Of Of their juices oh! Them Was I'll drink ye up, Singing; I'll drink ye down, And No More Till the old moon's cup Did They: Is cracked all round, And the pickled sun Jumps out of his brine, And you cry Done! To the Barley Wine. Come, boy, sup! Come, fill up! Here's King's own drink for the King's own cup!

What happened after this I really don't know. For I was not there, though I should like to have been.

I only know that when Martin Pippin stepped out of Gillman's Farm with his lute on his back, Old Gillman was fast asleep on the settle. But Martin had never been wider awake.

It was late in the afternoon. There was no sign of human life anywhere. In their stables the cows were lowing very badly.

"Oh, maids, maids, maids!" sighed Martin Pippin. "Rack and ruin, my dears, rack and ruin!"

And he fetched the milkpails and went into the stalls, and did the milkmaids' business for them. And Joyce's Blossom, and Jennifer's Daisy, and Jessica's Clover stood as still for him as they stand in the shade of the willows on Midsummer Day. And Jane's Nellie whisked her tail over his mouth, but seemed sorry afterwards. And Joscelyn's Lemon kicked the bucket and would not let down her milk till he sang to her, and then she gave in. But little Joan's little Jersey Nancy, with her soft dark eyes, and soft dun sides, and slender legs like a deer's, licked his cheek. And this was Martin's milking-song.

You Milkmaids in the hedgerows, Get up and milk your kine! The satin Lords and Ladies Are all dressed