Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard Part 57

And this time she broke off the thread. And she put the needle in and out of the pinked flannel in her housewife, and she tucked the thimble in its place. And then she felt in a little pocket where something clinked against her scissors, and Martin watched her. And she took it out and put it in his hand. And his hand tightened again over hers and he said gravely, "Is it a needle?"

"No, it is not," said Jane primly, "but it's very much to the point."

"Oh, you wise woman!" whispered Martin (and Jane colored with satisfaction, because she was turned seventeen). "What would poor men do without your help?"

Then he kissed very respectfully the hand that had p.r.i.c.ked him: on the back and on the palm and on the four fingers and thumb and on the wrist. And then he began looking for a new place, but before he could make up his mind Jane had taken her hand and herself away, saying "Good night" very politely as she went. So he lay down to dream that for the first time in his life he had made up his mind. But Jane, whose mind was always made up, for the first time in her life dreamed otherwise.

It happened that by some imprudence Martin had laid himself down exactly under the gap in the hedge, and when Old Gillman came along the other side crying "Maids!" in the morning, the careless fellow had no time to retreat across the open to safe cover; so there was nothing for it but to conceal himself under the very nose of danger and roll into the ditch. Which he hurriedly did, while the milkmaids ran here and there like yellow chickens frightened by a hawk. Not knowing what else to do, they at last cl.u.s.tered above him about the gap, filling it so with their pretty faces that the farmer found room for not so much as an eyelash when he arrived with his bread. And it was for all the world as though the hedge, forgetting it was autumn, had broken out at that particular spot into pink-and-white may. So that even Old Gillman had no fault to find with the arrangement.

"All astir, my maids?" said he.

"Yes, master, yes!" they answered breathlessly; all but Joscelyn, who cried, "Oh! oh! oh!" and bit her lip hard, and stood suddenly on one foot.

"What's amiss with ye?" asked Gillman.

"Nothing, master," said she, very red in the face. "A nettle stung my ankle."

"Well, I'd not weep for t," said Gillman.

"Indeed I'm not weeping!" cried Joscelyn loudly.

"Then it did but tickle ye, I doubt," said Gillman slyly, "to blushing-point."

"Master, I AM not blushing!" protested Joscelyn. "The sun's on my face and in my eyes, don't you see?"

"I would he were on my daughter's, then," said Gillman. "Does Gillian still sit in her own shadow?"

"Yes, master," answered Jane, "but I think she will be in the light very shortly."

"If she be not," groaned Gillman, "it's a shadow she'll find instead of a father when she comes back to the farmstead; for who can sow wild oats at my time o' life, and not show it at last in his frame? Yet I was a stout man once."

"Take heart, master," urged Joyce eyeing his waistcoat. But he shook his head.

"Don't be deceived, maid. Drink makes neither flesh nor gristle; only inflation. Gillian!" he shouted, "when will ye make the best of a bad job and a solid man of your dad again?"

But the donkey braying in its paddock got as much answer as he.

"Well, it's lean days for all, maids," said Gillman, and doled out the loaves from his basket, "and you must suffer even as I. Yet another day may see us grow fat." And he turned his basket upside down on his head and moved away.

"Excuse me, master," said Jane, "but is Nellie, my little Dexter Kerry, doing nicely?"

"As nicely as she ever does with any man," said Gillman, "which is to kick John twice a day, mornings and evenings. He say he's getting used to it, and will miss it when you come back to manage her. But before that happens I mis...o...b.. we'll all be plunged in rack and ruin."

And he departed, making his usual parrot-cry.

"I'm getting fond of old Gillman," said Martin sitting up and picking dead leaves out of his hair; "I like his hawker's cry of Maids, maids, maids!' for all the world as though he had pretty girls to sell, and I like the way he groans regrets over his empty basket as he goes away. But if I had those wares for market I'd ask such unfair prices for them that I'd never be out of stock."

"What's an unfair price for a pretty girl, Master Pippin?" asked Jessica.

"It varies," said Martin. "Joan I'd not sell for less than an apple, or Joyce for a gold-brown hair. I might accept a blade of gra.s.s for Jennifer and be tempted by a b.u.t.ton for Jane. You, Jessica, I rate as high as a saucy answer."

"Simple fees all," laughed Joyce.

"Not so simple," said Martin, "for it must be the right apple and the particular hair; only one of all the gra.s.s-blades in the world will do, and it must be a certain b.u.t.ton or none. Also there are answers and answers."

"In that case," said Jessica, "I'm afraid you've got us all on your hands for ever. But at what price would you sell Joscelyn?"

"At nothing less," said Martin, "than a yellow shoe-string."

Joscelyn stamped her left foot so furiously that her shoe came off. And little Joan, anxious to restore peace, ran and picked it up for her and said, "Why, Joscelyn, you've lost your lace! Where can it be?" But Joscelyn only looked angrier still, and went without answering to set Gillian's bread by the Well-House; where she found nothing whatever but a little crust of yesterday's loaf. And surprised out of her vexation she ran back again exclaiming, "Look, look! as surely as Gillian is finding her appet.i.te I think she is losing her grief."

"The argument is as absolute," said Martin, "as that if we do not soon breakfast my appet.i.te will become my grief. But those miserable ducks!"

And he s.n.a.t.c.hed the crust from Joscelyn's hand and flung it mightily into the pond; where the drake gobbled it whole and the ducks got nothing.

And the girls cried "What a shame!" and burst out laughing, all but Joscelyn who said under her breath to Martin, "Give it back at once!"

But he didn't seem to hear her, and raced the others gayly to the tree where they always picnicked; and they all fell to in such good spirits that Joscelyn looked from one to another very doubtfully, and suddenly felt left out in the cold. And she came slowly and sat down not quite in the circle, and kept her left foot under her all the time.

As soon as breakfast was over Jennifer sighed, "I wish it were dinner-time."

"What a greedy wish," said Martin.

"And then," said she, "I wish it were supper-time."

"Why?" said he.

"Because it would be nearer to-morrow," said Jennifer pensively.

"Do you want it to be to-morrow so much?" asked Martin. And five of the milkmaids cried, "oh, yes!"

"That's better than wanting it to be yesterday," said Martin, "yet I'm always so pleased with to-day that I never want it to be either. And as for old time, I read him by a dial which makes it any hour I choose."

"What dial's that?" asked Joyce. And Martin looked about for a Dandelion Clock, and having found one blew it all away with a single puff and cried, "One o'clock and dinner-time!"

Then Jennifer got a second puff and blew on it so carefully that she was able to say, "Seven o'clock and supper-time!"

And then all the girls hastened to get clocks of their own, and make their favorite time o'day.

"When I can't make it come right," confided little Joan to Martin, "I pull them off and say six o'clock in the morning."

"It's a very good way," agreed Martin, "and six o'clock in the morning is a very good hour, except for lazy lie-abeds. Isn't it?"

"Nancy always looked for me at six of a summer morning," said little Joan.

"Yes," said Martin, "milkmaids must always turn their cows in before the dew's dry. And carters their horses."