aie THE WESTERN MEADOWLARK. 
have almost forgotten the choruses of springtime and have come to accept 
our uncheered lot as part of the established order of things. But on a nippy 
October morning, as we are bending over some dull task, there comes a 
sound which brings us to our feet. We hasten to the window, 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 May day, just at its prime, in a crystal vase, and was now pouring out 
the imprisoned sound in a gurgling, golden flood. What cheer! What 
heartening! Yea; what rejuvenation 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 yet quits his lowly station ever and again, mounts some fence- 
post or tree-top, and publishes to the world an unquenchable gladness in 
things-as-they-are. If at sunrise, then the gleams of the early ray flash 
resplendent from his golden breastplate-—this high-priest of morning; and 
all Nature echoes his joyous blast: “Thank God for sunshine!” Or if the 
rain begins to fall, who so quickly grateful for its refreshment as this optimist 
of the ground, this prophet of good 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 rival 
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 but he lacks an adequate 
instrument of expression. His voice does not respond to his requirement. 
Perhaps his early 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, where breath 
of pine mingled faintly with the aroma of neighboring cactus bloom, and 
where the sight of distant mountains fired the imagination of a poet race. 
At any rate we of the West are proud of the Western Meadowlark and would 
have you believe that such a blithe spirit could evolve only under such 
circumstances. 
