THE SONG OF THE LARK 
185 
The hips, less fruitful, are numerous, and are flushing from a 
pale green to a luscious vermilion. The hollies are rich with 
berries which have already assumed their blood-red colour, and 
they stand out prominently from a mass of fresh green leaves. 
The lime trees are rapidly losing their amber dress, and under 
the oak, ash, maple saplings and rowan-trees, the sere leaves 
lie thick. In the distance the old oak, elm and ash trees appear 
still green, but the ashes are putting on a pale tint. When one 
is near, the others show signs of the turning of the leaf. The 
wind plays gently through the oak, and frequently the ripe 
brown acorn drops through the branches with a rustle and a 
gentle thud on to the greensward beneath, where many a meal 
will be provided later on for the wood pigeon and the pheasant. 
Numbers of those marvellous cups with one, two and three on 
a slight brown stalk still hang upon the tree with the fruit 
discharged, but when the leaves fall they will come too. 
In the glistening sunlight the dark brown of the chestnut, 
the russet of the beech, the bright yellow of the crab, and the 
lemon colour of the damson and rose, form a pleasing contrast 
with the evergreens in the background. By the river-side a 
weeping willow is completely bare, as if exhausted by excessive 
grief, whilst another quivers in the murmuring breeze as its 
whitish leaves patter to the ground. 
Over the meadow, where the grass has not been mown, the 
long light rye-grass, leaning earthward as it is gently swayed by 
the wind, is still full of seed, and, with the dead stalks of a 
thousand flowers that have lived their day, affords excellent 
shelter for game in the green undergrowth. The meadow where 
the cattle have grazed, and the hills around, extend like a huge 
green carpet and form a fitting setting for the picture of the 
varied hued leaves and fruit in all directions. The rye-grass is 
dry, but the undergrowth is soaked, aS it always is at this time 
of the year, and here and there a belated flower, which flourishes 
when swallows come, peeps through the earth as if to bid them 
a loving and a last farewell. 
Francis John Underwood. 
THE SONG OF THE LARK. 
URING my life (and I am but a stripling yet, of twenty- 
six summers), I have probably listened to more larks 
singing than to any other British songster. For me, 
nevertheless, this sweet-voiced minstrel has a special 
charm, and I should never tire of listening to its joyous 
melodies. I may say at once it is my favourite British song 
bird : for me it has an attraction and a fascination indescribable. 
Thus I may be pardoned, perhaps, if in my notes respecting the 
bird’s song I may appear over zealous in the praise bestowed 
upon this scorner of the ground. 
