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something to do with this. But though the feathered 

 tribe do not frequent the lane in numbers they are 

 sufficiently near for me to have the full benefit of their 

 harmony. In the spring and summer the fields on each 

 side abound with Larks, and their songs are an almost 

 unfailing source of pleasure. One never tires of watching 

 them ascend and descend, their aerial journey occupying 

 sometimes ten minutes, or even more. In commencing its 

 upward flight the Lark turns its head to the wind. At 

 first its course seems to be somewhat irregular and 

 fluttering, then with tremulous wings it cleaves the air 

 rapidly, sometimes upward, sometimes slantingly or in 

 circles, till, (as occurs, perhaps, oftenest in the summer), it 

 reaches a height scarcely discernible to the naked eye 

 although its wings, when expanded, are fourteen or fifteen 

 inches across. The descent is a little more rapid, the 

 motions then being exceedingly graceful, till it approaches 

 the earth, when, with closed wings, it drops like a stone on 

 the greensward. During the whole of this time its song 

 has never ceased. It is indescribably delicious and varied. 

 You are fixed to the spot, listening with all your ears, from 

 the first clear notes at starting, to the fainter music which 

 reaches you from its highest altitude, and again to the 

 gently-increasing melody of its descent, the strain closing 

 in the sweetest cadence just as it drops to its earthly 

 treasures. In the plumage of the Lark we have another 

 illustration of that law of compensation I alluded to in 

 speaking of the Tuberous Moschatel. Among the winged 

 creation, as a rule, the sweetest singers wear the plainest 

 garb, as is shown by the dusky hue of this aerial warbler. 

 Sober, too, is the dress of the melodious Thrush, whose rich 



