The Western Meadowlark 



Authorities. — Gambel, Proc. Acad. Nat. Sci. Phila., vol. iii., 1847, p. 204; 

 Bendire, Life Hist. N. Am. Birds, vol. ii., 1895, pp. 462-465, pi. vi., figs. 23, 24 (habits, 

 nests and eggs); Belding, Auk, vol. xiii., 1896, pp. 29-30; vol. xv., 1898, pp. 56-57 

 (song); Chapman, Bull. Amer. Mus. Nat. Hist., vol. xiii., 1900, pp. 297-320, 8 figs, 

 (crit. study) ; Bryant, H. C, Univ. Calif. Pub. Zool., vol. ii., 1914, pp. 377-510, pis. 

 21-24, 5 figs, (food and economic status in Calif.). 



SUMMER silences the birds so gradually, and we ourselves have be- 

 come so much absorbed in business during the prosy days of September, 

 that we have almost forgotten the choruses of springtime, and have come 

 to accept our uncheered lot as part of the established order of things. 

 But on a nippy October morning, as we are bending over some dull task, 

 there comes a sound which brings us to our feet. We hasten to the 

 window, throw up the sash and lean out into the cool, fresh air, while a 

 Meadowlark rehearses, all at a sitting, the melodies of the year's youth. 

 It all comes back to us with a rush: the smell of lush grasses, the splendor 

 of apple blossoms, the courage of lengthening days, the ecstacies of 

 courtship — all these are recalled by the lark-song. It is as though this 

 forethoughted soul had caught the music of a May day, just at its prime, 

 in a crystal vase, and was now pouring out the imprisoned sound in a 

 gurgling, golden flood. What cheer! What heartening! Yea; what 

 rejuvenation it brings! Wine of youth! Splashes of color and gay 

 delight! 



It is impossible not to rhapsodize over the Meadowlark. He is a 

 rhapsodist himself. Born of the soil and lost in its embraces for such 

 time as it pleases him, he yet quits his lowly station ever and again, 

 mounts some fence-post or tree-top, and publishes to the world an un- 

 quenchable gladness in things-as-they-are. If at sunrise, then the gleams 

 of the early ray flash resplendent from his golden breastplate, — this high- 

 priest of morning; and all Nature echoes his joyous blast: "Thank God 

 for sunshine!" Or if the rain begins to fall, who so quickly grateful for 

 its refreshment as this optimist of the ground, this prophet of good cheer! 

 There is even an added note of exultation in his voice as he shouts: "Thank 

 God for rain!" And who like him can sing farewell to parting day! 

 Piercing sweet from the meadows come the last offerings of day's daysmen, 

 peal and counterpeal from rival friendly throats, unfailing, unfaltering, 

 unsubdued: "It is good to live. It is good to rest. Thank God for 

 the day now done!" 



The Meadowlark of the East has a poet's soul, but he lacks an 

 adequate instrument of expression. His voice does not respond to his 

 requirement. Perhaps his early education, as a species, was neglected. 

 Certain it is that in passing westward across the prairies of Iowa or 

 Kansas one notices an instant change in the voices of the Meadowlarks. 



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