A Storyteller’s Spell Shows How Love-tales End – in a Happily Way that Vanquishes a Thousand Unhappily Ways: Eleanor Farjeon’s Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard（2/2）
– Stories in a story of Martin Pippin, who is a trickster or a Minstrel
All those Wandering Storytellers
Throughout history, wandering storytellers have played a crucial role in shaping literature. From Will Sommers, the Court jester of Henry VIII, known for his sharp wit and ability to critique the king through humor, to Shakespeare’s fool in King Lear, these figures serve as both narrators and performers, weaving tales that entertain, instruct, and challenge the listener’s perception of the world.
Eleanor Farjeon’s Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard embraces this tradition, bringing us a singing poet, a romantic rogue, and a teller of tales, whose power is not magic or swordplay, but words. As a literary trickster, Martin Pippin moves between the boundaries of reality and imagination, capturing the essence of what storytelling has always been—a journey through love, longing, and the wisdom hidden in fairy tales.
Eleanor Farjeon and Martin Pippin
First published in 1921, Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard is one of Eleanor Farjeon’s most enduring works, blending romance, poetry, and folklore. While she is best known for The Little Bookroom and Morning Has Broken, this novel-length fairy tale reveals her sharp wit, poetic lyricism, and deep love for storytelling traditions.
The book was awarded the prestigious Carnegie Medal Honor, cementing its place as a classic of early 20th-century children’s literature. It’s not just a children’s book—it’s a story for dreamers of all ages, rich with hidden layers and timeless wisdom.
Love, Storytelling, and the Art of Waiting
At its heart, Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard is “stories in a story”, built around a romantic framework:
A heartbroken young lover, Robin Rue’s adored woman, 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.”
There, he meets the traveling minstrel Martin Pippin, who agrees to help win back the maiden’s love—but on one condition. To gain access to the lady’s heart, Martin must first charm six milkmaid, each guarding a locked gate to where she waits. And how does he do it? With telling
“Six brand-new love tales, tales which no woman ever heard before. ”
The first story: King William, with only a barn and a linen robe left of his kingdom, sets out on his father’s lost lands. Along the way, he meets Hawkin Sopas, who teaches him to dance, and the Dove Brothers, who teach him to pray. A witch tells him,
“A king must dance, pray, and rule—within his barn.”
At a blacksmith’s forge, William meets Viola, a woman disguised as a smith’s apprentice. Working beside her, he falls in love, realizing the truth after four nights of silent vigil.
Returning to his barn, William weds Viola, and together they dance, pray, and rule, finding riches not in gold, but in love and simplicity.
The second story: Upon the lonely slopes of Amberley, the shepherd Gerard tended his flock, dreaming of distant lands and unseen joys. Orphaned and raised by an old shepherd, he knew only the quiet company of a barren cherry tree and a crystal lantern that would not light.
One day, Thea, the spirited daughter of Lord Comberwy, wandered into his world, gathering flowers and laughter. In her, Gerard found a glimpse of the warmth he had always longed for. But fate was unkind—Thea was forced to wed the brutish Master of Coates.
On her wedding night, a great flood swept through the land, and Thea escaped, fleeing back to Gerard. Under the barren cherry tree, love was confessed, and at that moment, the tree burst into bloom—a sign that a long-forgotten curse had lifted.
Leaving the mountains behind, Gerard and Thea set forth together, choosing love over duty, freedom over fate. And so, the shepherd became lord of the earth, and the tree of sorrow became the tree of love.
The third story: In the marshlands of West Siddersham, Helen lived a quiet, lonely life in her father’s mill, where the endless grinding of the millstones became her only companion. Raised by a stern miller after her mother’s passing, she dreamed of distant worlds beyond the mill’s heavy stones.
One day, a young sailor named Peter arrived, asking for bread. His presence stirred something in Helen, and before he left, he gave her a seashell—a fragile link to the vast world she longed for. Pressing it to her chest, she wove dreams of Peter’s adventures, turning his memory into a lifeline of hope.
Years passed, but Helen remained trapped in her father’s mill, her only escape found in dreams of Peter. Through the whispers of the seashell and the millstones, she imagined a life beyond the marsh, full of love and adventure.
Then, a storm flooded the land, and Helen found a man stranded in a tree. Peter had returned—but no longer as the boy she had loved in her dreams. Now a weary, middle-aged man, he was a stranger to the vision she had cherished for so long. Reality clashed with fantasy, and when Peter proposed, Helen refused, unable to reconcile the past with the present.
But as the storm cleared, so did the truth—Peter was the same sailor from her dreams, changed by time but still hers. At last, Helen let go of illusion and embraced reality, where love, though different from her fantasies, was real all the same.
The fourth story: In a storm-lit house, five brothers—Lionel, Hugh, Heriot, Ambrose, and Hobb, the eldest—sat by the fire, speaking of their dreams. Lionel longed for a miniature farm, Hugh wished to tame lions, Heriot desired peacocks, and Ambrose sought wisdom. But gentle-hearted Hobb, who loved nothing more than his garden, kept his dream silent in his heart—to grow a perfect golden rose.
One by one, his brothers vanished—first Lionel, then Hugh, Heriot, and Ambrose—each chasing their desires. But when they returned, they were not the same: Lionel had lost his joy, Hugh his courage, Heriot his beauty, and Ambrose his wisdom. Heartbroken and confused, Hobb set off to uncover the truth.
His journey led him to the enchanted forest of Open Winkins, where he met Margaret, a woman of otherworldly power. She granted wishes, but at a terrible cost—she stole what was most precious in return. Hobb, drawn to her mystery, fell in love, only to realize that she was the one who had drained his brothers of their gifts.
Determined to right the wrongs, Hobb demanded their stolen gifts back. Margaret, in a final act, wove him a wedding gown embroidered with a golden rose, but as she finished, she fell lifeless. Hidden in her black hair, Hobb found a coiled black snake—the darkness within her. Removing it, Margaret awakened, free from her curse.
Together, they returned home, where his brothers were restored, and in his garden, at long last, Hobb’s golden rose bloomed. With love and redemption, Margaret became his bride, and their wedding marked the triumph of sacrifice, healing, and the power of dreams fulfilled.
This story explores the themes of desire, sacrifice, and redemption, portraying Hobb’s journey of overcoming darkness through love and courage, while also revealing Margaret’s inner struggle and ultimate salvation.
The fifth story: In the heart of Bury, England, lived Harding, a skilled craftsman known as the Red Smith. Strong and silent, with fiery hair and sharp blue eyes, he shaped the hardest steel with steady hands. In Sussex, far from the clang of his forge, Rosalind, the proud and penniless daughter of a fallen noble house, guarded the ruins of her family’s honor.
One day, Harding glimpsed a Hart-Royal, a rare white stag, and vowed to hunt it when it came of age. That same day, he saw Rosalind and recognized a different kind of untamed beauty. Lonely and struggling, Rosalind prayed at the Wishing-Pool for deliverance, life or death. From the shadows, Harding answered her wishes, leaving her gold in secret, though she never knew the hands that helped her.
Determined to restore her family’s name, Rosalind entered a grand tournament, disguising herself as the Rusty Knight. She sought a sword from Harding, but he demanded a kiss in return. Refusing, she turned to the legendary smith Wayland and obtained a blade of myth. Though she lost battle after battle, she fought on with unyielding pride, unaware that Harding watched from afar, ensuring no harm befell her.
When the Queen of Sussex declared a great hunt for the white stag, Rosalind and Harding crossed paths once more. At last, Harding revealed the truth—that he had guarded her from the beginning. In the final duel of the tournament, Harding rode forth as the Red Knight, besting every challenger and crowning Rosalind the fairest lady in Sussex.
Draped in silver and gold, Rosalind mounted the white stag, and with Harding at her side, they sailed away upon the river, sealing their love with the kiss he had once asked for. Honor and sacrifice, pride and devotion—bound together in a tale of love and legend.
The sixth story: Upon a lonely island, in a tower of stone, a princess sat imprisoned—not for treason, but for love. She had given her heart to a young squire, and for this, her father, the king, cast him into exile and chained her fate to the watchful eyes of six Gorgons—serpentine women who stood as her eternal guards.
The squire, barely fifteen, too young to wield a sword against magic, turned to a wandering stranger, pleading for help. The traveler, moved by the boy’s devotion, embarked on three perilous journeys to the island.
� The First Task – The squire longed for a flower from the princess’s hair. Under moonlight, the traveler danced and played music, lulling the Gorgons into a trance. He plucked the golden blossom, leaving in its place a bloom from the squire’s hand.
� The Second Task – The squire asked for her golden ring. Once more, the traveler sailed through mist and tide, wove melodies into the wind, and stole away the ring, replacing it with a silver band.
�The Third Task – The squire begged for the princess herself. This time, the traveler lingered for six days, telling stories, singing songs, and sharing laughter with the Gorgons. One by one, five Gorgons shed their monstrous forms, returning to their former beauty, their humanity restored by the warmth of his words. Yet the sixth remained unchanged, for she had never known love.
When at last the traveler sought to free the princess, he failed. Her heart had withered in sorrow, and before he could reach her, she died. The squire, upon hearing the news, followed her into the shadows, and the king, broken by regret, met his own end. Chaos consumed the kingdom, the five redeemed Gorgons faded into dust, and only the last Gorgon remained—forever alive, forever alone.
As for the traveler? He vanished into legend, wandering from land to land, forever telling the story of a love lost to time.
This nested storytelling structure is reminiscent of The Canterbury Tales or One Thousand and One Nights, where each tale deepens the emotional layers of the novel. The Power of Storytelling – Stories become a form of persuasion, seduction, and ultimately, transformation. Love in Many Forms – The book explores not just romantic love, but the love found in friendship, loyalty, and longing. Patience and Playfulness – The six milkmaids represent different aspects of love and human nature, requiring Martin to adapt his storytelling to each one.
A Musical Prose
Farjeon was not just a storyteller—she was a poet at heart. Her prose in Martin Pippin is filled with rhythm, lyricism, and a delightful theatricality that makes the book feel like it should be performed as much as read.
Stories are meant to be spoken aloud, to rise from the flatness of the page and take on warmth, texture, and breath. A story read to a child is not just words—it is rhythm, melody, and motion; it is the rise and fall of a voice shaping a world that was once only ink and paper. The sentences must be long, rolling forward like waves, carrying the listener from crest to crest, allowing meaning to unfold with the breath that sustains them.
A child does not merely hear a story; they feel it—in the deep, steady hum of a father’s voice, in the soft lilt of a mother’s whisper, in the playful urgency of a tale told too quickly, or the heavy pause of a moment held still in the air. Words are not enough; it is the voice that builds the walls of an invisible house, brick by brick, where imagination lives.
I have tried to share with children the beauty of minimalist prose, the sharp, distilled elegance of stories that say little and mean much, but when they listen—when their small faces lift, expectant, to the sound of my voice—what they crave is not silence, not space, but movement, texture, the winding path of a sentence that leads them somewhere new. When they heard:
”The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.”
– “In a Station of the Metro”, Ezra Pound
Or
“So – at the end, I made my hands a hammock for him.
My arms the trees. ”
– “Sing to It”, Amy Hepel
Children like them, but not enough for them. I can notice their eyes drifting, on the verge of reaching for another Minecraft Cubeez. Yes, they like short phrases, but it seems they are never satisfied with the children. Adults tend to favor brevity because our attention and patience have been shaped over the years of training. Our brains are conditioned to absorb information quickly, relying on our increasingly depleted imagination to fill in the gaps. Short sentences, clear and concise, make processing easier, which is why we gravitate toward them. Yet, perhaps these simple phrases won’t capture our children’s attention in the same way “the best fried chicken on the street” might.
Before children are trained to think as we do, why not let them experience the rhythm and beauty of language? Let them bathe in the cadence of words, soaking in the unique poetry of their childhood. After all, opportunities to leave such an imprint on their hearts are fleeting, slipping away all too quickly.
“The hours passed, quarter by quarter, and the King stayed motionless like one in a dream. Presently, however, the dream was faintly shaken by a little lirrup of sound, as light as rain dropping from leaves above a pool. Again and again the sweet round notes fell on the meditations of the King, and he remembered with entrancement that this was the tender signal by which he was summoned to the Dewpond.”
For modern readers, the language may feel slightly antiquated, but this only adds to the book’s fairy-tale charm.
�Not a Fast-Paced Narrative – Readers looking for action may find the book’s structure slow and meandering.
�Dated Language – Some expressions and dialogue feel old-fashioned, which could be a challenge for modern readers.
�Complex for Younger Readers – While technically a children’s book, it reads more like a novel for adults who love fairy tales.
Despite these challenges, Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard remains a unique and beautifully crafted work, rewarding those who take the time to savor its storytelling magic.
Why This Book Still Matters
Farjeon reminds us that stories are more than just entertainment—they are gifts, tools, and keys to unlocking the human heart.
Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard is a book that, much like its protagonist, doesn’t demand attention but wins it through sheer charm and wit. It is a tale of love, patience, and the power of a well-told story—one that invites readers to sit beneath its branches, listen, and be enchanted.
In the realm of human emotions, there are no shortcuts—only patience and waiting will lead us to the destination. Like what Marin Pippin said in the end:
“I’ve known many a short cut,” said Martin, “to end in a blind alley.”
What’s the last book that made you feel like you were being told a story, rather than just reading one? Share in the comments!
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