"We won't tell the wife!" said Mr. Baxter. "She is nervous, and 'twould ha'nt her, and keep her awake nights. One comfort, they're not Kingdom born, those kids. They belong to them French folks over by the dump, down Devildom way." Weekday mornings Pippin spent mostly in the bakery, working, singing, whistling, all with a hearty will. After dinner he would take his wheel and go his way through the pretty shady streets of the country town, or out along the green roads that led from it in various directions. When he came to a promising looking corner with houses set within comfortable reach of one another, he would stop, and leaning on his wheel, would put up his shingle, as he called it: in other words, sing his grinding song. He had made it up, bit by bit, as the wheel turned, humming, under his hands. Here it is: but you should hear Pippin sing it! Knives and scissors to grind, oh! Have 'em done to your mind, oh! Large and small, Damaged and all, Don't leave any behind, oh! Knives and scissors to grind, oh! Every specie and kind, oh! Bring 'em to me, _And_ you will see Satisfaction you'll find, oh! "Yes, sir, made it my own self!" he replied to Elder Stebbins' questions on the song. "I don't know how I done it. I expect it was a kind of miracle. I sang the first line through two three times, and lo ye! the next one turned right up matchin' of it. Now that isn't nature, you know, but yet it's _right_, and it fits straight in. When a thing comes like that, I call it a miracle. What say?" "Very interesting, my young friend! Do you--a--might it perhaps be better to substitute 'species' for 'specie'? The latter means, as you doubtless are aware, current coin; and--" "Great!" said Pippin. "Current coin is what I'm after every time, so I get it honest. Specie'll do for me, Elder!" Before he had sung the song through once, doors and windows would be opening, housewives peering out, children running to gather round the magic wheel, listening open-mouthed to the singer. It was all play to Pippin; wonderful, beautiful play. "I tell you," he would say, "I tell you, seems though just to breathe was enough to keep gay on. Over there to Shoreham--I dunno--I expect the air got discouraged, some way of it. They'd open the windows, but the outside air was shy of comin' in--like the rest of us! But out here in the open--and things lookin' like this--green grass! I'm happy, and don't you forget it!" Sometimes he got a lift on his way. Solitary drivers, plodding along the road, and seeing the trim, alert figure ahead stepping out briskly with its wheel, were apt to overhaul it, and after a glance at Pippin's face would most likely ask, "Goin' along a piece? Like a lift?" and Pippin, with joyous thanks, would climb eagerly in, all ready to begin a new chapter of human intercourse.