"What's that?" Something seemed to speak in his heart. "Why not sing one of the Lord's songs? Well, I am a duffer! And tryin' to think of some that would do!"
He threw back his head, and let out his voice in a shout that made the listeners start:
"Oh, Mother dear, Jerusalem,
When shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall I see?"
The baker's wife came to the door and stood, wiping her eyes with her apron. The baker, flushed and floury, left his ovens and came to peer over her shoulder, open-mouthed; people appeared in the neighboring windows and doorways, and the crowd on the sidewalk thickened silently. Pippin neither saw nor heard them; his voice poured out in waves of song, longing, rejoicing, triumphant.
"Thy gardens and thy goodly walks
Continually are green,
Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers
As nowhere else are seen."
"You bet they do!"
"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.