size and form it is not unlike the common wild California canary, to which it is doubtless allied; but, curiously enough for a night-singer, its plumage is far more brilliant and beautiful,—green, orange, and blue, with a narrow bar of red on the wings. I have never been able to see it save in captivity, but many a night have I lain awake in my home on Russian Hill, in San Francisco, and listened to its plaintive little song as it flitted among the shrubbery in the garden, wondering what manner of bird it might be. One day a Mexican residing in the western part of the city, who gains a livelihood by trapping canaries and linnets, offered me a pair of these little beauties for two dollars, apologizing for the high price by saying that they were very rare and caught with difficulty. Struck by their beauty and delicate brilliancy of plumage, I asked him if they ever sang. "Oh, yes, señor; but only in the night. You must remember the story of the bird which sang all night before the tomb in which lay the body of the Saviour of the world"—touching his hat respectfully—"after the crucifixion? Well, señor, these birds are of the same!"
Then the story of the Easter-night singer of far-off Palestine, as I had heard it told in other lands, came back me; and going home I read with fresh interest the beautiful lines by Fitzjames O'Brien:
"You have heard, my boy, of the One who died,
Crowned with keen thorns and crucified;
And how Joseph the wealthy—whom God reward—
Cared for the corpse of the martyred Lord,
And piously tombed it within the rock,
And closed the gate with a mighty block.
