lo The Larks of Germany. 



lions of liquid diamonds the dew is sparkling in the fragrant 

 grass of the meadows, and from the leafy arches overhead the 

 morning concert of our friends is sounding forth in honor of 

 their Maker's praise. Look ! From j^onder field of grain, in 

 ever-widening spirals, higher and higher rises a plain-colored 

 bird, floating on the balmy breeze of the bright spring morn. 

 The little throat is swelled with exuberant joy and the sweet- 

 est warbling reaches our ear, now loud and clear, as the spiral 

 nears us, now soft and distant as it turns the other way. 

 How insignificant is the song of our Horned Lark in compari- 

 son with this music of the Skylark ! With delightful ecstasy 

 we follow it with our eyes till it soars as a mere speck in the 

 azure sky, and now is lost to our sight. From every field and 

 meadow they seem to rise, in glorious blending their notes 

 ring out till some bold Sparrow Hawk sweeps past us and 

 buries his cruel talons in the merry songster's breast, slowly 

 dragging it to some secluded spot for lunch. For a few mo- 

 ments all is quiet, but soon they rise again on all sides. The 

 Skylark's lyric nature accompanies its movements with the 

 singing life of its soul. With its slow rising it creates the 

 beautiful warbling trill, and in the invisible realms of the 

 ether the flute-notes of its nature melt away in circling waves, 

 whirling they descend earthward again, till, like a dart of 

 Cupid, it swoops into the surging sea of grain. There she 

 seeks her food — humble fare — grain, insects and worms. 

 There she builds her excuse of a nest — a mere hollow, lined 

 with rootlets. There she watches her four or five white, brown- 

 speckled treasures, there she raises her broods in safety from 

 the haunts of man, but not always of the reaper's scythe. 



But come again with me to the meadows, when the twilight 

 falls and the sun has gone to sleep. Softer now the tints of 

 heaven, hushed the voices of the joyous spring, murmuring 

 lowly are the forests' trees, slowly homeward turneth man and 

 beast. Far, far away the Lark's melodious voice is heard; 

 but no ! there she sits behind a clod in the furrow near by. 

 More like that insolent ruffian, the Sparrow, she seems in her 

 plain garb, and I understand your look of disappointment. 

 But 'tis often so ; in plain garb is hidden many a jewel. And 

 as she runs over the clods and through the grain with heaving 

 breast, graceful neck, alert and free, you wilt soon see. 'tis 



