AMERICAN SKYLARKS 197 



which I had never been able to make out be- 

 fore, except in pictures. They were not car- 

 ried erect, — like an owl's " ears," let us 

 say, — but projected backwards, and with 

 the head at a certain angle showed with per- 

 fect distinctness. The bird would do no- 

 thing but eat, and as our own dinner awaited 

 us we continued our tramp. We would try 

 to see more of him and his mate at another 

 time, we promised ourselves. 



First, however, we paid a visit (that very 

 afternoon) to the upland farm just now 

 spoken of. "Mears's," we always call it. 

 Perhaps the larks would be there also. But 

 we found no sign of them, and the bachelor 

 occupant of the house, who left his plough 

 in the beanfield to offer greeting to a pair of 

 strangers, assured us that nothing answering 

 to our description had ever been seen there 

 within his time; an assertion that might 

 mean little or much, of course, though he 

 seemed to be a man who had his eyes open. 



This happened on May 17. Six days af- 

 terward, in company with an entomological 

 collector, we were again in the dusty valley. 

 I went into the larch swamp in search of a 



