Book One - Chapter 22 In Which I Meet with a Literary Tinker

Even in that drowsy, semi-conscious state, that most delightful
borderland which lies midway between sleeping and waking, I knew
it could not be the woodpecker who, as I judged from sundry
manifest signs, lodged in the tree above me. No woodpecker that
ever pecked could originate such sounds as these--two quick,
light strokes, followed by another, and heavier, thus: Tap,
tap--TAP; a pause, and then, tap, tap--TAP again, and so on.

Whatever doubts I may have yet harbored on the subject, however,
were presently dispelled by a fragrance sweeter, to the nostrils
of a hungry man, than the breath of flowers, the spices of the
East, or all the vaunted perfumes of Arabia--in a word, the odor
of frying bacon.

Hereupon, I suddenly realized how exceedingly keen was my
appetite, and sighed, bethinking me that I must first find a
tavern before I could satisfy my craving, when a voice reached me
from no great distance, a full, rich, sonorous voice, singing a
song. And the words of the song were these:

"A tinker I am, O a tinker am I,
A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll die;
If the King in his crown would change places wi' me
I'd laugh so I would, and I'd say unto he:
'A tinker I am, O a tinker am I.
A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll die.'"

It was a quaint air, with a shake at the end of the first two and
last two lines, which, altogether, I thought very pleasing. I
advanced, guided by the voice, until I came out into a grassy
lane. Seated upon an artfully-contrived folding stool, was a
man. He was a very small man despite his great voice, who held a
kettle between his knees, and a light hammer in his hand, while a
little to one side of him there blazed a crackling fire of twigs
upon which a hissing frying-pan was balanced. But what chiefly
drew and held my attention was the man's face; narrow and peaked,
with little, round, twinkling eyes set deep in his head, close
black hair, grizzled at the temples, and a long, blue chin.