Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard. Eleanor Farjeon
ring from your heart-sick daughter.
THE WANDERING SINGER
O mend your heart, you shall wear this other
When yours is a thousand leagues over the water,
Daughter, daughter,
My sweet daughter!
Love is at hand, my daughter!
The third part of the game is seldom played. If it is not bed-time, or tea-time, or dinner-time, or school-time, by this time at all events the players have grown weary of the game, which is tiresomely long; and most likely they will decide to play something else, such as Bertha Gentle Lady, or The Busy Lass, or Gypsy, Gypsy, Raggetty Loon!, or The Crock of Gold, or Wayland, Shoe me my Mare!—which are all good games in their way, though not, like The Spring-Green Lady, native to Adversane. But I did once have the luck to hear and see The Lady played in entirety—the children had been granted leave to play "just one more game" before bed-time, and of course they chose the longest and played it without missing a syllable.
(The Ladies, in yellow dresses, stand again in a ring about The Emperor's Daughter, and are for the last time accosted by The Singer with his lute.)
THE WANDERING SINGER
Lady, lady, my apple-gold lady,
May I come into your orchard, lady?
For the fruit is now on the apple-bough,
And the moon is up and the lawn is shady,
Lady, lady,
My fair lady,
O my apple-gold lady!
THE LADIES
You may not come into our orchard, singer,
In case you set free the Emperor's Daughter
Who pines apart to follow her heart
That's flown a thousand leagues over the water,
Singer, singer,
Wandering singer,
O my honey-sweet singer!
THE WANDERING SINGER
Lady, lady, my apple-gold lady,
But will you not hear a Serena, lady?
I'll play for you now neath the apple-bough
And you shall dream on the lawn so shady,
Lady, lady,
My fair lady,
O my apple-gold lady!
THE LADIES
O if you play a Serena, singer,
How can that harm the Emperor's Daughter?
She would not hear though we danced a year
With her heart a thousand leagues over the water,
Singer, singer,
Wandering singer,
O my honey-sweet singer!
THE WANDERING SINGER
But if I play a Serena, lady,
Let me guard the key of the Emperor's Daughter,
Lest her body should follow her heart like a swallow
And fly a thousand leagues over the water,
Lady, lady,
My fair lady,
O my apple-gold lady!
THE LADIES
(They give the key of the Tower into his hands.)
Now you may play a Serena, singer,
A dream of night for an apple-gold lady,
For the fruit is now on the apple-bough
And the moon is up and the lawn is shady,
Singer, singer,
Wandering singer,
O my honey-sweet singer!
(Once more The Singer plays and The Ladies dance; but one by one they fall asleep to the drowsy music, and then The Singer steps into the ring and unlocks the Tower and kisses The Emperor's Daughter. They have the end of the game to themselves.)
Lover, lover, thy/my own true lover
Has opened a way for the Emperor's Daughter!
The dawn is the goal and the dark the cover
As we sail a thousand leagues over the water—
Lover, lover,
My dear lover,
O my own true lover!
(The Wandering Singer and The Emperor's Daughter float a thousand leagues in his shallop and live happily ever after. I don't know what becomes of The Ladies.)
"Bed-time, children!"
In they go.
You see the treatment is a trifle fanciful. But romance gathers round an old story like lichen on an old branch. And the story of Martin Pippin in the Apple-Orchard is so old now—some say a year old, some say even two. How can the children be expected to remember?
But here's the truth of it.
MARTIN PIPPIN IN THE APPLE-ORCHARD
PROLOGUE
PART 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 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,"