238 THE SONG. 
hope. spoir, hope, is the old device of us Gauls; and for this reason 
we have adopted as our national bird that humble minstrel, so poorly 
clad, but so rich in heart and song. 
Nature seems to have treated the lark with harshness. Owing to 
the arrangement of her claws, she 
cannot perch on the trees. She 
rests on the ground, close to the 
poor hare, and with no other 
shelter than the furrow. How 
precarious, how riskful a life, at 
, the time of incubation! What 
cares must be hers, what inqui- 
etudes! Scarcely a tuft of grass conceals the mother’s fond treasure 
from the dog, the hawk, or the falcon. She hatches her eggs in haste ; 
with haste she trains the trembling brood. Who would not believe 
that the ill-fated bird must share the melancholy of her sad neighbour, 
the hare ? 
