36 A Walk from 



ing and evening air. It does not ascend by gyrations, 

 like the eagle or birds of prey. It mounts up like a 

 human aspiration. It seems to spread out its wings 

 and to be lifted straight upwards out of sight by the 

 aflatus of its own happy heart. To pour out this in 

 undulating rivulets of rhapsody, is apparently the only 

 motive of its ascension. This it is that has made it so 

 loved of all generations. It is the singing angel of 

 man's nearest heaven, whose vital breath is music. Its 

 sweet warbling is only the metrical palpitation of its 

 life of joy. It goes up over the roof- trees of the rural 

 hamlet on the wings of its song, as if to train the human 

 soul to trial flights heavenward. Never did the Creator 

 put a voice of such volume into so small a living thing. 

 It is a marvel almost a miracle. In a still hour you 

 can hear it at nearly a mile's distance. "When its form 

 is lost in the hazy lace-work of the sun's rays above, it 

 pours down upon you all the thrilling semitones of its 

 song as distinctly as if it were warbling to you in your 

 window. 



The only American bird that could star it with the 

 English lark, and win any admiration at a popular 

 concert by its side, is our favourite comic singer, the 

 Bobolink. I have thought often, when listening to 

 British birds at their morning rehearsals, what a sen- 

 sation would ensue if Master Bob, in his odd-fashioned 



