Ncsfinq of the Blaelc-hradrd S^isl'm. 5 
but there are still a few of us who value a bird for what 
it is — not for what fashion or the artistic (?) perception of 
the cage -bird specialist pronounces it to be worth. Black 
and golden -yellow convoy to the mind perhaps a some- 
thing of barbaric splendour but there is nothing barbaric 
about the contrasted colours of this little bird, — nothing gaudy, 
no slobbing on of the colour with sensuous brush. The deep 
chrome of the breast and underparts is set off by the black 
of the head and throat; the yellow of the rump is relieved 
by dark shading of the lower half of the tail, and the bla'c^^;ish 
wings serve as a foil to the golden bar which crosses the base 
of the flights. When he is at home this little Siskin is' 
to be found in the Argentine and Brazil. Here you may see 
him in small and .scattered flocks flitting about the trees and 
gardens which .surround the estancias, clinging to the thistle 
heads, and twittering tunefully very much as our Goldfinch 
doe.s in this cx)untry. 
Act I. Scene I. 
But it is not in the brilliant sunshine of the Argentine 
that our little drama opens. No, we are in a great an-d 
smoky city on a gloomy December day. Through the nar- 
row window of a small birdshop a little daylight sadly trickles. 
Huddled together in closely packed cages are ranged the quick 
and the dead; the atmo.sphere is not too salubrious. What 
are these three miserable little objects which look .so black 
and funereal? " Never want to see any more of those Sis- 
kins,'" .says the custodian of these dismal premises; "Wish 
you would take them away." We take them away. 
Act I. Scene II. 
Several days elapse. Two of our prisoners ai'-e dead 
and we trust 'that their spirit forms have flo-wn to the " bright 
Elysian fields," for, life is life, and, where there is life, we 
hope there is no death. The last prisoner is evidently near- 
ing the border-line; he buries his head beneath his winig" 
as though he wished that the end might come quickly. We 
are sad too, and ask ourselves what is wrong with this little 
bird which eats and drinks and is not diseased, but is dying. 
An idea occurs to us. Why not try a mind-cure? We snatch 
up our prisoner and hurry him away to a tiny bird -house, 
designed to catch the first glimpse of the winter sun, where, 
