The baker's wife brought an apronful of knives and scissors, and Pippin set to work, blessing the Old Man, who had put him in the tool shop for six months and made him keep the tools in order while old Grindstone was laid up with rheumatism. Old Grindstone! Pippin wondered what his real name was. "They called him Grindstone, account of a song he used to sing when he was grindin'. He said 'grinstone' where I say 'grindstone,' and I always maintained I had reason, because it grinds; but he thought otherwise, and he'd grind away--wonderful hand he was at it; in for twenty years, and ground all the time except when laid up as he was now and again; arson, though he says he never knew there was any one in the house, and anyway they was got out alive, though some damaged--well--so he'd grind away, the old man would, and all the time he'd sing in a kind of dry, wheezy voice: "Grin, grinstone, grin! Grin, grinstone, grin! When you're out You roam about, But it's otherwise when you're in--grin! It's otherwise when you're in! Grin! It's otherwise when you're in!" Pippin's voice rang out round and full; his wheel turned merrily, the blades flashed in the sun. A little crowd gathered round him, watching the whirling wheel. Looking up, he saw some children among them. Was this quite the song for them? He checked himself and broke out with "There was an old man And he was mad--" The children clustered nearer. "Sing another!" said a little flaxen-haired girl in a pink pinafore. Pippin looked at her approvingly, and reflected that she was the very moral of the "little gal," that little sister he had--or as good as had, almost! He ran over his repertory: most of the prison songs were not what her ma would choose--certainly not! But--there was one the cook's boy used to sing--how did that go? "Dum de rido! dum de rido! I had a little dog, and his name was Fido--" "What's that?" Something seemed to speak in his heart. "Why not sing one of the Lord's songs? Well, I _am_ a duffer! And tryin' to think of some that would do!" He threw back his head, and let out his voice in a shout that made the listeners start: "Oh, Mother dear, Jerusalem, When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end, Thy joys when shall I see?" The baker's wife came to the door and stood, wiping her eyes with her apron. The baker, flushed and floury, left his ovens and came to peer over her shoulder, open-mouthed; people appeared in the neighboring windows and doorways, and the crowd on the sidewalk thickened silently. Pippin neither saw nor heard them; his voice poured out in waves of song, longing, rejoicing, triumphant. "Thy gardens and thy goodly walks Continually are green, Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen." "You bet they do!"