so utterly homeless and solitary as a meadow- 

 lark after the winter nightfall. In the middle 

 of a wide, snow-covered pasture one will occa- 

 sionally spring from under your feet, scattering 

 the snow that covered him, and go whirring 

 away through the dusk, lost instantly in the 

 darkness — a single little life in the wild, bleak 

 wilderness of winter fields ! 



Again, the grass is often a dangerous bed. On 

 the day before the great March blizzard of 1888, 

 the larks were whistling merrily from the fences, 

 with just a touch of spring in their call. At 

 noon I noted no signs of storm, but by four 

 o'clock — an hour earlier than usual — the larks 

 had disappeared. They rose here and there 

 from the grass as I crossed the fields, not as they 

 do when feeding, far ahead of me, but close to 

 my feet. They had gone to bed. By early even- 

 ing the snow began to fall, and for two days 

 continued furiously. 



A week later, when the deep drifts melted, I 

 found several larks that had perished from cold 

 or starvation or had smothered under the 

 weight of snow. 



There is something of awe in the thought of a 

 [38] 



