“Perhaps mademoiselle will sing for us!” he said; “a song of her great country, is it not so? Last summer I guided an American Monsieur over the Weisshorn, and he sang a song of America. How was it, then? ‘I-an-kidoodel?’ Mademoiselle is acquainted with that song?”
Honor laughed outright; dreams and story—for she was really a sensible child when not dreaming—flew up the chimney.
“‘Yankee Doodle!’ oh, yes!” she cried. “I know that; Papa taught me, and some others too.”
She sang “Yankee Doodle” in a very sweet, fresh voice, and the Twins—I was going to say “cooed,” but “mooed” would be more like it—with pleasure, and demanded more. So she gave them the “Suwanee River” and “America,” to their great delight. The first, Gretli declared, melted the heart to softness, while the latter—
“That elevates the soul, hein? The blood stirs, as at the sound of a trumpet. But mademoiselle must not fatigue herself. A glass of buttermilk, is it not so? Behold that I bring it, on the instant, cool, cool, from the stream!”
She brought it, and stood over Honor with smiling authority.
“Every drop!” she commanded. “It is stomachic, mademoiselle understands, and nourishing as well. Now mademoiselle shall rest, and Zitli shall tell us a story, since it is not yet bed time. Or is mademoiselle weary? On the instant I transport her—”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Honor. “A story, please! I am not one scrap sleepy.”
“At the good hour! Attend, Zitli, till I bring my knitting! Behold, thy table! Thou talkest always best with thy tools in hand, not so? Voilà! proceed then, my son!”
Zitli, with frowning brow, pondered, taking up one tool and then another, examining them minutely and laying them aside. Finally, he found one to his mind; selected a bit of wood with like care, and fell to work.