grees he got them all into a corner, 

 crouching together and trembling when 

 he would overshadow them with his 

 train, place the ends of the feathers 

 against the wall so as to cover them, 

 rattle his quills, in order to frighten 

 them, and then strut off proud of the 

 trick he had played. He did not care 

 for the food which he left untouched. 



The peacock's disposition .is as vari- 

 able as that of many other creatures, 

 some being mild and good-tempered, 

 while others are morose and jealous in 

 the extreme. His train, though popu- 

 larly called his tail, is in reality com- 

 posed of the upper tail coverts, which 



are enormously lengthened and finished 

 at their extremities with broad, rounded 

 webs, or with spear-shaped ends. The 

 tail feathers are of a grayish brown 

 color seven or eight inches in length, 

 and can only be seen when the train is 

 erected, that being its appointed task. 

 The female is much smaller than her 

 mate and not nearly so handsome, the 

 train being almost wanting, and the 

 color ashy brown, with the exception 

 of the throat and neck, which are green. 

 The peacock lives about twenty 

 years and the beautiful variegated 

 plumage of the male's train appears 

 about the third year after birth. 



THE SONG OF THE LARK. 



ADA M. GRIGGS. 



The peasant girl, her feet all bare. 

 With her rustic grace, has a noble air. 



She's queen of the stubble-field and she, 

 In mind, is free as the lark is free. 



Her thought, above all meaner things. 

 Is soaring with the lark that sings. 



No hampered child of the city streets, 

 Who bows his head whomsoe'er he 

 meets, 



Who toils for a pittance with little rest. 

 But should envy the freedom in this 

 breast. 



She's the child of nature; vice does not 



lure; 

 She's clothed upon with a life that's 



pure. 



The wholesomeness of her atmosphere 

 Does more for man than his logic drear. 



Who delves in books' philosophic lore. 

 Sees nature's problems — but little more. 



'Tis God's own child who has eyes to 



see 

 What is closed to the eye of philosophy. 



The artist who dabbles with color and 



brush 

 Sees but the reflection of nature's flush. 



The skilled musician knows not pure 



tone; 

 He hears but the resonance of his own. 



'Tis the peasant girl, as she hurries 



along. 

 Who hears the lark's good morning 



song. 



She hears it with gladness; her heart is 



gay; 

 All nature greets her in festal array. 



The lark makes her world a world of 



song 

 His notes in her heart sing her whole 



life long. 



She's the true musician, artist and seer; 

 She looks ypon nature with vision clear. 



The lark brings her day without shade 

 or sorrow, 



And crowns each day with a sweet to- 

 morrow. 



He gives a joy only nature can, 



A boon sent down from heaven to man. 



O little lark, sing on! sing on! 

 The country dark new life will don. 



The tones thou'lt hurl from thy tiny 

 heart 



Peace will unfurl and new joy impart. 



