XIIL THE COPPERSMITH. 



" Only the song of a secret, bird" Swinburne. 



Vox et prceterea nihil, indeed, is Xantholcpma ha>ma~ 

 tocephala to most of us ; for though many, vexed by his 

 monotonous music through the blazing weather in which 

 he delights, may have exclaimed with the apostle ' ' Alex- 

 ander the Coppersmith hath wrought me much evil," few 

 have seen him face to face. Nor can one reasonably be 

 expected to see a pudgy little green bird, not much bigger 

 than a sparrow, with distinct ventriloquial proclivities, 

 and an aspiring spirit which leads him to prefer tall trees 

 to bushes. Nevertheless, Alexander sometimes descends 

 lower, and then one may see and admire his coral feet and 

 crimson and primrose head-marking, and realize that a 

 bird which would be striking in any country is really one 

 of our commonest citizens, for when once you know him 

 by sight you may see him almost anywhere, even in the 

 trees in the streets ; while long before his personal acquain- 

 tance is made his continual " tonk-tonk-tonk," repeated in- 

 definitely like the tick of grandfather's clock, attests his 

 ubiquity. Even in the cold weather he will tune up at 

 times, but he does not really do himself justice till it gets 

 warm, though he feels the heat as much as other birds, for 

 I have caught him gasping for breath like any crow. No 

 doubt, as he is an energetic little bird, he is often scant of 



