THE GLORY OF THE WEST. 191 



I discover in looks or manners, that answered 

 the query whether there were one or two pairs at 

 work. Now they have all flown, and only the 

 laugh of the flicker and the call of the young 

 ones all around remain to tell that woodpecker 

 babies grew up in the tree. 



Now let us close our glasses, fold our camp- 

 chairs, and go back to the camp, our present 

 home. As we turn into the gate another voice 

 strikes our ear, louder, richer, more attention- 

 compelling than any we have heard. Listen : 

 It is the wonder and the glory of the West ; it 

 is the most intoxicating, the most soul-stirring of 

 bird voices in the land where thrushes are ab- 

 sent ; it embodies the solitude, the vastness, the 

 mystery of the mesa ; it is the western meadow 

 lark. This is his nesting-time, and we may be 

 treated to his love-song, the exquisite, whispered 

 aria he addresses to his mate. As I have heard 

 it when very close to him, he sings his common 

 strain several times, and then drops to a very 

 low twittering and trilling warble, in which now 

 and then is interpolated a note or two of the 

 usual score, yet the whole altogether different in 

 spirit and execution. He ends by a burst into 

 the loud carol he offers to the world. There is 

 nothing beyond that to hear, even in my beloved 

 nook. 



