OUT OF DOORS IN FEBRUARY. 209 



few minutes of summer in February days. In May 

 he rises before as yet the dawn is come, and the sun- 

 rise flows down to us under through his notes. On 

 his breast, high above the earth, the first rays fall as 

 the rim of the sun edges up at the eastward hill. The 

 lark and the light are as one, and wherever he glides 

 over the wet furrows the glint of the sun goes with 

 him. Anon alighting he runs between the lines of 

 the green corn. In hot summer, when the open hill- 

 side is burned with bright light, the larks are then 

 singing and soaring. Stepping up the hill laboriously, 

 suddenly a lark starts into the light and pours forth 

 a rain of unwearied notes overhead. With bright 

 light, and sunshine, and sunrise, and blue skies the 

 bird is so associated in the mind, that even to see him 

 in the frosty days of winter, at least assures us that 

 summer will certainly return. 



Ought not winter, in allegorical designs, the rather 

 to be represented with such things that might suggest 

 hope than such as convey a cold and grim despair ? 

 The withered leaf, the snowflake, the hedging bill that 

 cuts and destroys, why these ? Why not rather the 

 dear larks for one ? They fly in flocks, and amid the 

 white expanse of snow (in the south) their pleasant 

 twitter or call is heard as they sweep along seeking 

 some grassy spot cleared by the wind. The lark, the 

 bird of the light, is there in the bitter short days. 

 Put the lark then for winter, a sign of hope, a 

 certainty of summer. Put, too, the sheathed bud, 

 for if you search the hedge you will find the buds 

 there, on tree and bush, carefully wrapped around 

 with the case which protects them as a cloak. Put, 



p 



