Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard
by Eleanor Farjeon




FOREWORD

I have been asked to introduce Miss Farjeon to the American public,
and although I believe that introductions of this kind often do more
harm than good, I have consented in this case because the instance
is rare enough to justify an exception. If Miss Farjeon had been a
promising young novelist either of the realistic or the romantic
school, I should not have dared to express an opinion on her work,
even if I had believed that she had greater gifts than the
ninety-nine other promising young novelists who appear in the course
of each decade. But she has a far rarer gift than any of those that
go to the making of a successful novelist. She is one of the few who
can conceive and tell a fairy-tale; the only one to my
knowledge--with the just possible exceptions of James Stephens and
Walter de la Mare--in my own generation. She has, in fact, the true
gift of fancy. It has already been displayed in her verse--a form in
which it is far commoner than in prose--but Martin Pippin is her
first book in this kind.

I am afraid to say too much about it for fear of prejudicing both
the reviewers and the general public. My taste may not be theirs and
in this matter there is no opportunity for argument. Let me,
therefore, do no more than tell the story of how the manuscript
affected me. I was a little overworked. I had been reading a great