A YEAR WITH THE BIRDS 
631 
walking about with a peculiar dainty step, stopping every few 
moments to look about and give its tail a nervous flirt or to 
sound a note or two of its clear whistle. 
“ The Meadowlark is almost wholly beneficial, although a 
few complaints have been made that it pulls sprouting grain, 
and one farmer claims that it eats clover seed. As a rule, 
however, it is looked upon with favor and is not disturbed. 
“ I n the 238 stomachs examined, animal food (practically 
all insects) constituted 73 per cent, of the contents and vege- 
table matter 27 per cent. As would naturally be supposed, the 
insects were ground species, such as beetles, bugs, grasshop- 
pers, and caterpillars, with a few flies, wasps, and spiders. A 
number of the stomachs were taken from birds that had been 
killed when the ground was covered with snow, but still they 
contained a large percentage of insects, showing the bird’s 
skill in finding proper food under adverse circumstances. . . . 
“ Briefly stated, more than half of the Meadowlark’s food 
consists of harmful insects ; its vegetable food is composed either 
of noxious weeds or waste grain, and the remainder is made up 
of useful beetles or neutral insects and spiders. A strong point 
in the bird’s favor is that, although naturally an insect eater, 
it is able to subsist on vegetable food, and consequently is not 
forced to migrate in cold weather any farther than is necessary 
to find ground free from snow. This explains why it remains 
for the most part in the United States during winter, and moves 
northward as soon as the snow disappears from its usual 
haunts. 
“ There is one danger to which the Meadowlark is ex- 
posed. As its flesh is highly esteemed the bird is often shot for 
the table, but it is entitled to all possible protection, and to 
slaughter it for game is the least profitable way to utilize a 
valuable species.” — F. E. L. Beal, B.S. 
THE MEADOW LARK 
A brave little bird that fears not God, 
A voice that breaks from the snow-wet clod 
With prophecy of sunny sod, 
Set thick with wind-waved goldenrod. 
From the first bare clod in the raw cold spring, 
From the last bare clod when fall winds stray, 
The farm boy hears his brave song ring, 
And work for the time is a pleasant thing. 
— Hamlin Garland 
