THE LARK 251 



eager impatience in it, as if he was 'climbing' fast but 

 not fast enough. If stationary, the song slows down, 

 with little breaks in the chain of sound. And if he is 

 descending, the music seems to be gradually sinking and 

 lessening too. 



The notes and the wing-beats often, though not always, 

 go together. And this reminds me, how wonderful it is 

 for so small a bird to soar so strongly and to sing so loudly. 

 You boys and girls know how quickly you get out of breath 

 if you keep on shouting while you are running ; and if you 

 do this while you are running uphill, you soon have to stop, 

 and rest. 



Yet that is what the Skylark does, and does with ease. 

 He does not even fling himself into the air from a high 

 mountain crag like the eagle, but he springs from the turf 

 of the meadow or the plough-furrow, and quick beatings 

 of those little brown wings carry him up to heights 

 whither our dazzled eyes cannot follow him. And from 

 that immense distance his music comes down to us — we 

 can hear him singing while he is still beyond our sight. 

 It is marvellous. 



Nor this alone. The Skylark, as a rule, does not choose 

 the easy way of soaring — by sailing in circles each higher 

 than the last (spirals, as they are called), as even the mighty 

 eagles are content to do. But up and up he goes, some- 

 times a little slantingly, but at least as straight as a 

 hodman climbing a ladder. 



I have said that we associate the Skylark with the 

 bright fresh hours at the beginning of the day. Milton, in 

 one of his shorter poems, mentions among the joys of 

 country life that of hearing the Lark "startle the dull 

 night" with his song "till the dappled dawn doth rise." 

 It may be that occasionally his music is heard before day- 



