"The verdict is passed," said Martin. "And look! over our heads hangs the moon, as round and beautiful as a penny balloon, with an eye as wide awake as a child's at six in the morning. If she will not go to sleep in heaven to-night, why on earth should we? Let's have a party!"
The girls looked at one another in amazement and delight. "A party? Oh!" cried they. "But who will give it?"
"I will," said Martin.
"And who will come to it?"
"Whoever luck sends us," said Martin. "But we'll begin with ourselves. Joan and Joyce and Jennifer and Jessica and Jane and Joscelyn, will you come to my party in the Apple-Orchard?"
"Yes, thank you, Martin!" cried they. And ran away to change. But the only change possible was to take the kerchiefs off their white necks, and the shoes and stockings off their little feet, and let down their pretty hair. So they did these things, and made wreaths for one another, and posies for their yellow dresses. And it is time for you to know that Jennifer's dress was primrose and Jane's cowslip yellow, and that Joyce looked like buttercups and Jessica like marigolds; and Joscelyn's was the glory of the kingcups that rise like magic golden isles above the Amberley floods in May. But little Joan had not been able to decide between the two yellows that go to make wild daffodils, so she had them both. Under their flowerlike skirts their white ankles and rosy heels moved as lightly as windflowers swaying in the grass. And just when they were ready they heard Martin Pippin's lute under the apple-tree, so they came to the party dancing. Round and round the tree they danced in the moonlight till they were out of breath. But when they could dance no more they stood stock still and stared without speaking; for spread under the trees was such a feast as they had not seen for months and months.
In the middle was a great heap of apples, red and brown and green and gold; but besides these was a dish of roasted apples and another of apple dumplings, and between them a bowl of brown sugar and a full pitcher of cream. The cream had spilled, and you could see where Martin had run his finger up the round of the pitcher to its lip, where one drip lingered still. Near these there was a plum-cake of the sort our grannies make. It is of these cakes we say that twenty men could not put their arms round them. There were nuts in it too, and spices. And there was a big basin of curds and whey, and a bigger one of fruit salad, and another of custard; and plates of jam tarts and lemon cheesecakes and cheesestraws and macaroons; and gingerbread in cakes and also in figures of girls and boys with caraway comfits for eyes, and a unicorn and a lion with gilded horn and crown; and pots of honey and quince jelly and treacle; and mushrooms and pickled walnuts and green salads. Even Mr. Ringdaly did not provide a bigger feast when he married Mrs. Ringdaly. For there were also all the best sorts of sweets in the world: sugar-candy on a string, and twisted barley-sticks, and bulls'-eyes, and peardrops, and licorice shoe-strings, and Turkish Delight, and pink and white sugar mice; besides these there was sherbet, not to drink of course, but to dip your finger in. There were a good many other things, but these were what the milkmaids took in at a glance.
"OH!" cried six voices at once. "Where did they come from?"
"Through the gap," said Martin.
"But who brought them?"