No man who hammered
on at a dull monotonous duty, could have brought such cheerful notes
from steel and iron; none but a chirping, healthy, honest-hearted
fellow, who made the best of everything, and felt kindly towards
everybody, could have done it for an instant. He might have been a
coppersmith, and still been musical. If he had sat in a jolting waggon,
full of rods of iron, it seemed as if he would have brought some harmony
out of it.
Tink, tink, tink--clear as a silver bell, and audible at every pause of
the streets' harsher noises, as though it said, 'I don't care; nothing
puts me out; I am resolved to be happy.' Women scolded, children
squalled, heavy carts went rumbling by, horrible cries proceeded from
the lungs of hawkers; still it struck in again, no higher, no lower,
no louder, no softer; not thrusting itself on people's notice a bit the
more for having been outdone by louder sounds--tink, tink, tink, tink,
tink.
It was a perfect embodiment of the still small voice, free from
all cold, hoarseness, huskiness, or unhealthiness of any kind;
foot-passengers slackened their pace, and were disposed to linger near
it; neighbours who had got up splenetic that morning, felt good-humour
stealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees became quite
sprightly; mothers danced their babies to its ringing; still the same
magical tink, tink, tink, came gaily from the workshop of the Golden
Key.
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