"Right through the streets with silver sound The living waters flow, And on the banks on either side The trees of life do grow." "There, ma'am, there's your knives and scissors as good as I can do 'em, and I hope it's pretty good, to pay for that good breakfast. I surely do." "Good land, young man!" cried the baker's wife. "Who learned you to sing like that? Why, you'd sing the heart out of a stone statue!" Pippin laughed joyously, eyes and teeth flashing together. "I expect the Lord did, ma'am!" he said. "Anyhow it's His song, and you have to sing it as good as you can, ain't that so? Don't know of a job goin' beggin', do you, ma'am?" "What kind of job?" "'Most any kind! I'm lookin' for a trade to work in with my grindin' for a spell. I'm handy, var'ous ways: make brooms, set glass, carpenter or solder, I've done 'em all." "Ever been in a bakery?" "Not yet, but I'd admire to, if there was a chance." Pippin's face kindled, and he looked eagerly from the baker's wife to the baker himself who was considering him gravely. He was a stout, kindly-looking man; his right hand was bandaged, and he wore his arm in a sling. "I'm in need of an extry hand myself," he said slowly, with a glance at the bandage. "I don't know--" He looked at his wife, who nodded emphatically. "Step inside a minute, young man! Move on, boys, if you'll be so good! You're cluttering up the whole sidewalk." The crowd slowly dispersed, one or two neighbors lingering to question the good woman of the shop about the young stranger who sang so wonderfully. Who was he? Where'd he come from? Good-lookin', wasn't he? Their own knives would be none the worse for goin' over-- Inside the neat, fragrant shop, with its tempting display of coffee cakes, brown and varnished, of shapely loaves and rolls, cookies and doughnuts, the baker questioned Pippin. At first the questioning promised to be brief, for when, in response to "Where do you come from?" he heard, "State Prison!" the good man shook his head resolutely. "I guess that isn't good enough!" he said, not unkindly. "I'm sorry, young feller, for I like your looks, and you sing like a bird; but--my shop has a good name, and--" "Hold on!" Pippin laid a hand on his arm. "I know how you feel, sir! I'd feel the same in your place; but it would be because I didn't know. I won't hurt your shop, nor you! I'm _straight_! Lemme tell you!" He told his story briefly, the baker listening with anxious, doubtful looks. "So you see," he ended, "I couldn't go on the crook again, not if I wanted to, and I don't!"