Meadow and Mountain 



See, the plowshare bites the soil, and the black sod-rib- 

 bon stretches along the furrow's side. But how did the 

 blackbirds know when the first fresh furrow would be cut? 

 There seems to be a consensus of opinion among birds as 

 among men. And what errand has the robin so far away 

 from home on this cool April morning? I venture to say that 

 he knows his business. Yonder he goes, flying like the wind. 

 Something hangs from his beak like a round, pink string. 

 It is no string, but an angle-worm. And is the robin a fisher- 

 man? How does the worm enjoy that swift ride in the cool 

 air? He never came back to answer the query. He was 

 taking his turn in a tragedy. Some nude little robin will fly 

 the better when fledged for having eaten that worm. It 

 made a rich feast in the mud-made nest among the apple 

 blossoms. When the birdies and blossoms have flown away, 

 and autumn leaves are falling, and while the apple trees are 

 holding many an empty nest, I will fill my baskets with 

 winesaps and pippins. 



But the larks are the epicureans of the prairie. The 

 cock-lark is a yellow-vested philosopher. The larks know 

 that the fattest feasts are in the soil. The best things are 

 generally invisible till some plowshare turns them up. The 

 feathered folk seem to understand that use of the plowshare. 

 The lazy man never learns that secret. The lark sings be- 

 tween meals. That is well. It is one reason why he can 

 eat so many meals in a day. The spirit of song is a great 

 digestant. Ditties and dyspepsia are not congenial. All day 

 long the lark follows the furrow with as blithe a whistle as 

 was ever blown from the pursed lips of a prairie boy. They 

 both are lyrists, and life is glad for them. The lark 

 is a philosopher. He is industrious, courageous, cheerful. 



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