The man recoiled in terror, clasping his hands over his nose. "_Non! non, mon père!_ Not kill me again! W'at ees eet? W'at you call eet?" "Aromatic spirits of ammonia." The chaplain eyed the bottle gravely, shook his head, and put it back into his pocket. "No joke, is it, Bill! Well, good-by, old sport. Remember!" CHAPTER XII NIPPER A wealthy young Squire of Plymouth, we hear, He courted a nobleman's daughter so dear, And for to be married it was their intent, All friends and relations had given their consent. So sang Pippin, on a July morning when all the world was singing too. Bobolinks hovering, trilling, lighting, half mad with glee; catbirds giving grand opera in the willows; thrushes quiring psalms in the birches. Pippin stopped short as a dignified robin with the waistcoat of an alderman perched on a blackberry vine at his elbow and poured out a flood of liquid melody. "Like out of a jug!" said Pippin. "How d'you s'pose he does it? Gorry to 'Liza, how _do_ you s'pose he does it! "A day was appointed to be the wedding day, A young farmer was chosen to give her away; But soon as the lady this farmer did spy, She cried in her heart, "Oh, my heart!" she did cry. "Rest easy a spell, Nipper, and I'll rest too, and listen how he does that." Nipper was the wheel. Setting it on the ground, Pippin sat down under a wide-branching oak and listened while the robin, like a certain wise thrush we know of, sang his song twice over, carefully and thoroughly. Pippin, his head cocked much as the singer's was, noted each cadence, and when the music ceased, repeated it in a clear, mellow whistle. Robin, much intrigued, sang a third time, and a fourth, cocked his head still further and listened critically. Pippin replied more correctly than before; so it might have gone on indefinitely, but for an inquisitive crow who came bustling down to see what it was all about. Robin flew away scornfully, repudiating intercourse with crows; Pippin flirted his handkerchief and told the intruder to be off with himself for an old black juggins. Leaning against the oak bole, at peace with all mankind, Pippin listened and looked, looked and listened. Presently he became aware of an undertone of sound which made so perfect an accompaniment to the bird concert that he had not at first distinguished it. In the fringe of weeds beside the road a brook was murmuring over pebbles, gently, persistently, wooingly. The July sun was hot; he had been walking since sunrise. "I'll have me a wash!" quoth Pippin. "I'll have me a drink, and I'll have me a wash, And then I'll be clean as a whistle, by--" He stopped abruptly: he had promised Mrs. Baxter not to say "gosh"; it wasn't an expression she cared to hear him use, not real nice someways.