SKYLARK 



and green glens are seen at their best with the long shadows 

 stretching from tree to fern ; and the little waterfalls, tumbling and 

 dancing their way to the larger river, make a joyful music of their 

 own. But the Lark still sings, and with beak uplifted, crest 

 raised, and throat swelling, note after note rings out, as he pours 

 out with such fervour his simple song to the deep red sun. And 

 again, from the church, so softly blending in with the harmony 

 outside, come those words : 



' Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day ; 

 Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away ; 

 Change and decay in all around I see ; 

 O Thou, who changest not, abide with me ! ' 



The evening sun sinks lower ; a shadow creeps up over the 

 church, and the closing notes are sounded by the organ, and as 

 the people file slowly down the old path, the Lark leaves his perch, 

 and with buoyant, joyful flight goes up and up, until once more 

 he looks upon the sun, and before he is down again twilight falls, 

 and the blue hills change their colour. Then one by one the 

 notes of Nature cease. Lark and Thrush, Blackbird and Wren, 

 all seek their homes, and a silence the great still silence of 

 solitude falls like a mantle over all. And as I wend my way 

 down to the valley and again hear the music of the river so 

 different at night from when the sun plays on it a Curlew on 

 the heights calls to his mate, and such weird, wild notes they are. 

 The sunshine and the song are gone ; the colour of flowers and 

 tints of the sky are but memories, and night, grey and cold, covers 

 the land. 



I have often heard the beautiful song of the Skylark in some 

 dingy city street, and, looking up, one sees the little prisoner in a 

 small cage trying hard to obtain a glimpse of the blue sky he 

 loves so well. It is one of the saddest sights imaginable to see 

 this bird, which to me is the emblem of freedom, shut up in a 



105 z 



