CHAPTER LI 



THE SKYLARK 



IN April, when soft showers draw a fine gauze over sky 

 and marshland, the larks are most joyous. At this teeming 

 season, when a silver shower has washed the bright warm 

 air clean, the larks will go hovering until they look no 

 bigger than a fly on the face of the pale silvery moon. You 

 see them rise in numbers from the level grasses with quickly 

 beating wings, their tails opening and shutting up like a 

 Spanish lady's fan, beating the soft zephyr as they sing 

 triumphantly in their upright course to the stars, passing 

 up a mill-height in a moment, carrolling merrily as they 

 mount through the still air in their vernal flight, which is not 

 so swift as a titlark, yet more graceful ; and if the day be 

 fine, they are soon lost in the azure ; but if there is going to 

 be wet, they do not go higher than the mast of some tall 

 ammiral, but hang in the air, hovering like a kestrel, foretell- 

 ing a storm to the country folk ; but after a spring shower, 

 when a fresh breeze is blowing that has gladdened the 

 flowers, they delight most to mount or soar in ever-widen- 

 ing circles as pleases their fancy ; then, say the fenmen, it 

 is going to be fine. 



And if you lie on the damp water-grasses on your back 

 and gaze at the little speck of life as he descends, you will 

 see him sink forty yards by forty yards, and at the end of 

 a strongly marked musical flight you see him, when within 

 a mill's height of the ground, shut his wings and tail and 

 drop like a stone towards the green marsh with a trill, 



opening his wings and beating the air a foot from the 



147 



