And he fetched the milkpails and went into the stalls, and did the milkmaids' business for them. And Joyce's Blossom, and Jennifer's Daisy, and Jessica's Clover stood as still for him as they stand in the shade of the willows on Midsummer Day. And Jane's Nellie whisked her tail over his mouth, but seemed sorry afterwards. And Joscelyn's Lemon kicked the bucket and would not let down her milk till he sang to her, and then she gave in. But little Joan's little Jersey Nancy, with her soft dark eyes, and soft dun sides, and slender legs like a deer's, licked his cheek. And this was Martin's milking-song. You Milkmaids in the hedgerows, Get up and milk your kine! The satin Lords and Ladies Are all dressed up so fine, But if you do not skim and churn How can they dine? Get up, you idle Milkmaids, And call in your kine. You milkmaids in the hedgerows, You lazy lovely crew, Get up and churn the buttercups And skim the milkweed, do! But the Milkmaids in their country prints And faces washed with dew, They laughed at Lords and Ladies And sang "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" And if you know their reason I'm not so wise as you. When he had done, Martin carried the pails to the dairy and turned his back on Gillman's. For his business there was ended. So he went out at the gate and lifted his face to the Downs. It was a lovely evening. Half the sky was clear and blue, and the other half full of silky gold clouds--they wanted to be heavy and wet, but the sun was having such fun on the edge of the Downs, somewhere about Duncton, that they had to be gold in spite of themselves. CONCLUSION One evening at the end of the first week in September, Martin Pippin walked along the Roman Road to Adversane. And as he approached he said to himself, "There are many sweet corners in Sussex, but few sweeter than this, and I thank my stars that I have been led to see it once in my life." While he was thanking his stars, which were already in the sky waiting for the light to go out and give them a chance, he heard the sound of weeping. It came from the malthouse, which is the most beautiful building in Sussex. So persistent was it that after he had listened to it for six minutes it seemed to Martin that he had been listening to it for six months, and for one moment he believed himself to be sitting in an orchard with his eyes shut, and warm tears from heaven falling on his face. But knowing himself to be too much given to fancies he decided to lay those ghosts by investigation, and he went up to the malthouse and looked inside. There he found a young man flooring the barley. As he turned and re-turned it with his spade he wept so copiously above it that he was frequently obliged to pause and wipe away his tears with his arm, for he could no longer see the barley he was spreading. When the maltster had interrupted himself thus for the third occasion, Martin Pippin concluded that it was time to address him.