THE LARKS. 59 



leave this part of our subject, without quoting the description given 

 by Graham, in his poem "The Birds of Scotland/' of the Lark's 



nest: 



"On tree or bush no Lark is ever seen; 

 The daisied lea he loves, where tufts of grass 

 Luxuriant crown the ridge; there with his mate 

 He forms their lowly home of withered bents, 

 And coarsest spear-grass; next the inner work 

 With finer and still finer fibres lays, 

 Rounding it curious with his speckled breast. 

 How strange this untaught art! It is the gift, 

 The gift innate of Him, without whose will 

 Not e'en a Sparrow falleth to the ground." 



Bishop Mant, in his "British Months/' describes the distress of a 

 parent bird when driven from her nest: 



"Bound from her humble pallet mark, 

 Up starts, alarmed, the brooding Lark, 

 And round and round her dwelling flies, 

 With fluttering wings and plaintive cries." 



With the appearance of the Sky Lark on the wing most people are 

 familiar, but on the ground, or on a tree, it seldom gives the oppor- 

 tunity for close observation, being, during the breeding-season especially, 

 a shy, hiding bird. But in the winter, when it becomes gregarious, 

 and often driven by hunger, approaches very near to the farm-house, 

 or other human habitation, it can be better identified, although its 

 plumage is not then so distinctly marked as earlier in the year. The 

 male bird is generally a trifle over seven inches long; the colour on the 

 upper parts is a light reddish brown, as is the fore part of the neck, 

 which is covered with brownish black spots; the sides are a mixture 

 of brown and white, in somewhat obscure streaks, and the under parts 

 are dull white; there is a brownish white band over the eyes, and on 

 the head a crest of silky brown feathers, which when erected give the 

 bird a pert, foppish appearance, which is increased by its standing 

 well up on its longish legs, and seeming to look at objects with a 

 supercilious kind of air. He seems to say, "Here am I, the finest 

 singer in all creation, and of all small birds, look you! the loftiest 

 soarer; why everybody watches my flight, until I am lost in the golden 

 glory of the sunshine, and everybody listens to my song. All the poets 

 praise me. Hark, you shall hear!" Then up he springs, and is soon 

 caroling aloft, in quite a wonderful manner. What a shame it is to 

 cage such a songster, and as to putting him in a pie, and eating him, 



