he sang.
The lodge-keeper swore and jumped, till he was running wet for all the cold; but he was too fat a fox for these grapes.
“‘At the end of three year three baby—
But that is the very devil,’”
bawled the pierrot ferociously, and clashed the stilts like great castanets.
Then he settled himself firmly.
“‘One asks for bread,’” bellowed he; and suddenly flourishing his right stilt, caught the lodge-keeper a stinging smack across the head with it—
“‘Another for soup,’” he yelled, and gave such a counter blow with his left, that the lodge-keeper fairly reeled and went rolling over—
“‘L’aut’ qui demande à téter,
Et les seins sont tarie,’”