One cold, rainy March morning, a baker on Drury Lane near Covent Garden awoke to the sound of rain upon his windowsill.
“I don’t want to go out in the rain to deliver my muffins today!” he moaned.
“Rise and shine!” said Ragamuffin, the baker’s orange cat. “You’ve got work to do!”
The baker’s cat had always spoken to him at the most opportune moments. This morning was no different, causing the baker to crawl from bed and greet the dreary day nonetheless.
Long ago, the baker rescued the shivering orange kitten from a storm, and ever since that night, the cat had spoken in gratitude. The baker sometimes wondered if the cat really talked, or if the words came from his own sleepy thoughts.
Not long after having his morning tea, he set out with Ragamuffin, his umbrella, and a fresh batch of warm English muffins. Dressed in his flour-dusted apron, a flat cap, and a woolen coat, a broad oilcloth cape covered his body to help him shed rainwater. He walked past the brick row houses with their laundry lines strung between windows. The cobblestone streets were damp from morning fog and rain. Gas lamps flickered on iron posts, and their glow caught the early mist. Iron railings and horse troughs lined the street corners.
The baker listened to the clatter of hooves and the rattle of horse-drawn carriages on the cobbled streets. Delivery wagons carried bread, milk, and coal. Wet children darted between the carriages with baskets and penny toys. They stepped in puddles while church bells rang in the distance. The baker wished for a sunny day without the rain.
“Get your muffins while they’re hot!” he called, as he rang a handheld bell. He moved briskly down the street with a spring in his step. He carried his basket of warm yeasted muffins beneath a cloth, bound for breakfast tables and tea trays.
The muffins were arranged in neat rows, wrapped in linen or flannel cloths, which helped to retain heat and absorb moisture. His basket was covered with a small canvas awning and lined with tin and wood to keep out the rain.
Ragamuffin was soaked from the drizzle as he followed the baker. They passed by a wet chimney sweep, a drenched flower seller, and a tired paperboy in the rain.
“Glad I didn’t clean myself last night,” the cat quipped, catching raindrops on his tongue.
“A bath every now and then keeps away the fleas,” the baker scolded. The air filled with the smell of coal smoke and wet leather. “Don’t wait for the downpour!”
Each morning, the baker had regular customers who enjoyed his warm English muffins with salted butter. As he stopped by his customers’ homes, he delivered a morning treat like no other. Knocking on their doors, he handed them their fresh muffins one at a time.
“Good day, fine sir,” Mrs. Esme Mason said as she stood on her doorstep. Her children gathered ‘round her inside the doorway for their morning tasty joy.
“We all know The Muffin Man!” called a woman on the street wearing a bonnet. She dug in her pocket for change. Her bustle skirt was wet from the rain.
“I’d love some of your muffins, please,” asked a man wearing a dripping wet top hat. He took a few muffins from the basket and petted Ragamuffin on the head.
Like most mornings, the baker also had special souls to whom he gave muffins for free.
“This is for you,” he said, handing a homeless gent a muffin.
“Thank you very much indeed, kind sir,” replied the impoverished man who lived on the corner of Drury Lane. As the sun peeked through the clouds, the baker hoped for a brighter day.
“I look forward to your muffins each sunrise,” the homeless man said, taking a bite.
“Have a blessed day,” the baker told the smiling, but soaked man. The cat swished his tail and tickled the beggar’s nose, causing him to laugh out loud.
Another crowd gathered on the street corner to taste the baker’s muffins.
“Why, I’ve never tasted anything so delicious!” raved a young boy, hurrying to school. “The muffins aren’t even wet! They must be magical.”
“Can I try one, too?” inquired a young girl with an armful of wet schoolbooks, dripping from rain. He handed her a muffin with a smile.
One very special woman loved to make his acquaintance each morning, a schoolteacher named Miss Olivia Davies. He greeted her at her flat, and she always had a new book in hand, lately the poems of Tennyson. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met. Her eyes were kind and calm. He couldn’t bring her enough muffins.
“You are more beautiful with every passing morning,” the baker said to her.
“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you . . . I could walk through my garden forever,” she read, as the baker greeted her.
“I hope you’ll be my Muffin Woman,” he said. He handed her a bouquet of flowers from his basket and kissed her on the cheek.
“Only if you’ll be my Muffin Man,” she said. Then, she kissed him back on the cheek.
“I’ve been challenged to a duel for your hand again,” the baker told Olivia with a grin.
“What did you say to the fool?” Olivia asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I told him that I’d meet him any day of the week!” the baker said.
“I don’t see that going well, honey,” Olivia warned. “Please tell him you’re not getting involved!”
“Yes, I know. If you’re free for dinner tonight, I’ll bring over a meat pie, and we can dance all night,” the baker suggested, doing a little tap dance on her front step. “My cat will be glad to join us!”
Ragamuffin purred and rubbed his furry wet body against Olivia’s dry, flowered dress. She shook the cat hair off of her dress and laughed at him.
“I’ll make plum and apple cobbler for dessert,” he promised, as she nodded with delight.
“I’ll expect you by six o’clock sharp,” she agreed. “I’ll start a fire in the sitting room.”
As the baker left Olivia’s flat, the man who challenged him to a duel appeared dressed in medieval armor. As the town blacksmith, he wore his armor most days.
“Fight me to the death for the hand of Olivia Davies, sir,” the blacksmith threatened.
“Olivia wants nothing of the sort!” the baker responded.
“She gives me no choice!” the armored man announced, drawing his sword in the air.
“I have no sword! I only have muffins,” the baker said as he handed the blacksmith a muffin. “I do not want to fight you!”
The blacksmith took the muffin and studied it, and then took a bite in defeat.
“This is delicious. Fine, I lose,” the blacksmith said. “Olivia is now yours.”
“The gods have seen in my favor,” the baker declared to Ragamuffin. “After all, I am The Muffin Man.” His cat purred at his side in relief.
“Yes, you are The Muffin Man,” the blacksmith said, bowing before him. “If you bring me a muffin every day, I’ll spare your life and call it peace.”
“We have a deal. Now, sometimes kindness wins more battles than a sword,” The Muffin Man said in victory, as Ragamuffin purred beside him.
After returning to his bakery, The Muffin Man hurried inside and shut the door. He was grateful that the blacksmith had disappeared around the corner.
Beaming with pride, he hung a new sign outside his shop that said THE MUFFIN MAN, so everyone in the neighborhood could see his new bakery name.
That evening, Olivia and The Muffin Man enjoyed dinner by the fire, and The Muffin Man was home early enough to start his new batch of English muffins for morning delivery, just like every other morning.
Do you know The Muffin Man?
The Muffin Man, The Muffin Man.
Do you know The Muffin Man,
Who lives on Drury Lane?
Yes, I know The Muffin Man,
The Muffin Man, The Muffin Man.
Yes, I know The Muffin Man,
Who lives on Drury Lane.
Copyright 2022 Jennifer Waters
