Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard | Page 6

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 louder:
"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 feet
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 duckpond,
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 duckpond,
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