't he tell them a story?

"This will never do," said Martin. "I shall have you ill on my hands.
An apple apiece, or no story to-night."

At this dreadful threat Joan plucked the nearest apple she could find,
which was luckily a Cox's Pippin.

"Must I eat it all, Martin?" she asked. (And Joscelyn looked at her
quickly with that doubtful look which had been growing on her all day.)

"All but the skin," said Martin kindly. And taking the apple from her
he peeled it cleverly from bud to stem, and handed her back nothing but
the peel. And she twirled the peel three times round her head, and
dropped it in the grass behind her.

"What is it? what is it?" cried the milkmaids, crowding.

"It's a C," said Martin. And he gave Joan her apple, and she ate it.

Then Joyce came to Martin with a Beauty of Bath, and he peeled it as he
had Joan's, and withheld the fruit until she had performed her rite.
And her letter was M. Jennifer brought a Worcester Pearmain, and threw
a T. And Jessica chose a Curlytail and made a perfect O. And Jane, who
preferred a Russet, threw her own initial, and Martin said seriously,
"You're to be an old maid, Jane." (And Joscelyn looked at him.) And
Jane replied, "I don't see that at all. There are lots of lots of J's,
Martin." (And Joscelyn looked at her.) Then Martin turned inquiringly
to Joscelyn, and she said, "I don't want one." "No stories then," said
Martin as firm as Nurse at bedtime. And she shook her shoulders
impatiently. But he himself picked her a King of Pippins, the biggest
and reddest in the orchard, and peeled it like the rest and gave her
the peel. And very crossly she jerked it thrice round her head, so that
it broke into three bits, and they fell on the grass in the shape of an
agitated H. And Martin gave her also her Pippin.

"But what about your own supper?" said little Joan.

And Martin, glancing from one to another, gathered a Cox, a Beauty, a
Pearmain, a Curlytail, a Russet, and a King of Pippins; and he peeled
and ate them one after another, and then, one after another, whirled
the parings. And every one of the parings was a J.

Then, while Martin stood looking down at the six J's among the
clover-grass, and the milkmaids looked anywhere else and said nothing:
little Joan slipped away and came back with the smallest, prettiest,
and rosiest Lady Apple in Gillman's Orchard, and said softly, "This
one's for you."

So Martin pared it slenderly, and the peel lay in his hand li