Berkeley in May. 



As I walk through the fields and over 

 the hills I am greeted with a multitude 

 of songs that make the air glad with 

 their cheer. From a post by the side 

 of the half-grown patch of grain a 

 meadow-lark tunes his mellow pipe and 

 gives forth tones of such a varied, flute- 

 like quality that it sounds like the 

 piping of some inspired pastoral shep- 

 herd who knows his love is near. There 

 he sits in his streaked coat of brown, with 

 vest of gay yellow and crescent of black 

 upon his breast, singing to his demure 

 little dame upon her nest. 



It is not an easy nest to discover in a 

 field of grain, so deftly is it concealed, 

 but once found is well worth all the 

 pains bestowed upon its detection. It is 

 a dome-shaped structure, woven of fine 

 grasses, and contains some four or five 

 white eggs, rather thickly sprinkled with 

 reddish-brown dots. Happy is he who 

 can find such a prize as this, and, 

 after admiring the beauty and poetry 

 of the life it reveals, go his way in 

 i66 



