THE SKYLARK. 
As the lion is king of beasts, so may the skylark 
claim the monarchy of the musical feathered tribes. In- 
deed, the comparison is rather disparaging than otherwise 
to the lark, for whereas the monarch of the jnngle maintains 
his rule by virtue of his brawny limbs and tough mus- 
cles ; the tiny chorister compels our love and admiration, 
not by reason of its splendid plumage, not by its bold 
flight, not even by its magnificent music, but by its 
humility and gratitude. As soon as the sun peeps from his 
glorious hiding, making the dull doubtful clouds bright and 
hopeful, up springs the little brown bird from his lowly bed 
among the grass, and, rejoicing as he goes, speeds heavenward 
to give thanks to the Great Giver of a new day. Higher and 
higher he mounts till he seems no bigger than a bee, still the 
music of his tiny throat, no more capacious than a little reed, 
fills the broad expanse, and is sweetly audible to us as we stand 
in the cornfield, with our head thrown back, and our eyes 
shaded by our hands, lest we altogether lose sight of the 
quivering speck among the motes that float in the sunbeams. 
It is impossible not to feel something better than mere 
admiration for the skylark — reverence, I am not afraid to say, 
would more correctly express the feeling. It must be so. Yfhy 
else do I, who have been writing about redpoles and chaffinches 
and such “ small deer,” with inky fingers and a pen splayed at 
the nib — why, I ask, do I, before preparing to write about the 
lark, so scrupulously wash my hands, cut a bran new pen, and 
tear off the outer sheet from my blotting pad ? Good gracious ! 
I could not make greater preparation if I were once more a 
young man and about to indict a love letter to my sweetheart. 
Of no song-bird has so much been written as the skylark. 
He has been a fruitful subject with the poets from time imme- 
morial. Shakespeare calls the bird “ the herald of morning 
indeed, from Chaucer to Peter Pindar, there never lived a poet 
but had said his prettiest about this glorious songster. A volume 
might be filled with such extracts, and if I had their arrange- 
ment, Wordsworth’s tribute should stand before all others. 
Ci Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth, where cares abound ; 
Or, while thy wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest, xipon the dewy ground ? 
