64 THE WESTERN MEADOWLARK. 



Iia\e almost forgotten the choruses of springtime and \m\e come to accept 

 our uncheered lot as part of the established order of things. But on a nippy 

 October mnrning, as we are bending over some dull task, there comes a 

 sound which brings us tn our feet. We hasten to the windnw. throw up 

 the sash and lean out into the cool, fresh air while a Meadowlark rehearses, 

 all at a sitting, the melodies of the year's youth. It all comes back to us 

 with a rush; the smell of lush grasses, the splendor of apple blossoms, the 

 courage of lengthening days, the ecstacies of courtship^ — all these are recalled 

 by the lark-song. It is as tho this forethoughted soul had caught the music 

 of a Mav day, just at its prime, in a crystal vase, and w-as now pouring out 

 the ituprisoned sound in a gurgling, golden flood. What cheer! ^A'hat 

 heartening! Yea; what rejuvenaticju it brings! Wine of youth! Splashes 

 of color and gay delight! 



It is impossible not to rhapsodize over the Meadowlark. He is a rhap- 

 sodist himself. Born of the soil and lost in its embraces for such time as it 

 pleases him, he vet quits his lowly station e\-er and again, mounts some fence- 

 post or tree-top, and ])ul)lishes to the world an unquenchable gladness in 

 things-as-they-are. If at suiuMse, then the gleams cjf the earl_\' ray flash 

 resplendent from his golden breastplate, — this high-priest of morning: and 

 all Nature echoes his jovous blast: "Thank God for sunshine!" Or if the 

 rain begins to fall, who si:i quickly grateful for its refreshment as this optimist 

 of the ground, this prophet of gocjd cheer! There is even an added note 

 of exultation in his voice as he shouts: "Thank God for rain!" And who 

 like him can sing farewell to parting day! Piercing sweet from the meadows 

 come the last offerings of day's daysmen, peal and counterpeal from ri\'al 

 friendly throats, unfailing, unfaltering, unsubdued: "It is good to live. It 

 is good to rest. Thank God for the day now done!" 



The Meadowlark of the East has a poet's soul l>ut he lacks an adequate 

 instrument of expression. His voice does not respond to his recjuirement. 

 Perhaps his earl\- education, as a species, was neglected. Certain it is that 

 in passing westward across the prairies of Iowa or Minnesota one notices 

 an instant change in the voices of the Meadowlarks. The song of the 

 western bird is sweeter, clearer, louder, longer and more varied. The differ- 

 ence is SO' striking that we can explain it only upon the supposition of an 

 independent development. The western bird got his early training where 

 prairie wild flowers of a thousand hues ministered to his senses, wdiere breath 

 of pine mingled faintly with the aroma of neighboring cactus bloom, and 

 where the sight of distant mountains fired the iiuagination of a poet race. 

 At any rate we of the West are proud of the Western Meadowlark and wnuld 

 have you believe that such a blithe spirit could evolve only under such 

 circumstances. 



