250 THE BOOK OF BIRDS 



like it in all the world of Nature. The very heart of 

 happiness is in it. The Lark is of the morning ; he belongs 

 to the freshest, brightest hours. He suggests all that is 

 gladsome ; the very way in which he rises from the dew- 

 drenched earth and soars up into the clearest air, till the 

 light and warmth that have not yet reached the daisies 

 round his nest are about him, is a picture of the way a 

 brave glad hopefulness can rise above the clouds of care 

 and trouble, and live in the light of the sun. The Lark 

 must have helped thousands of weary folk. Heavy indeed 

 must be the heart that can listen to that wonderful music 

 without feeling part of its burden rolled away. 



The poets especially have loved the Skylark. Perhaps, 

 because he is himself so true a singer. No copyist is he. 

 He sings because he must, because he is full of gladness — 

 just as a little child sings — not because he has picked up a 

 song somewhere and is trying it over. 



Two modern poets, who died within a few years of 

 each other, have put this thought into words. Robert 

 Browning in one of his earliest long poems, " Paracelsus," 

 speaks of how 



"The lark 

 Soars up and up, shivering for very joy," 



and Tennyson in his story-poem, " The Gardener's Daughter," 

 describes in a single line the way in which the bird's 

 rapture almost hinders the flow of the music — 



"The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy," 



I have seen it stated that it is easy for any one 

 familiar with the Skylark's song to tell for certain, without 

 even looking at the singer, whether he is ascending or 

 descending or is stationary in the air, merely by listening 

 to the way he is singing. If he is soaring, his song has an 



