GLIMPSES OF EUROPEAN BIRDS. 
87 
they popped out of the hedgerows, those blessed English sub¬ 
stitutes for ugly walls and fences. They seemed to say, “You 
don’t see us in America, do you ? Well, you shall have one 
good look at us ; but be quick about it ! ” and into the hedge¬ 
rows they popped again. We were grateful to them for their 
friendliness, and it was 
pleasant to think that 
their ancestors had 
looked upon Wolsey 
and great Harry and 
good Queen Bess and 
those that followed 
them. 
One more bird and 
my story is done. A 
cool, breezy day in late 
'i o July saw us on the 
n road from Salisbury 
W to Stonehenge by way 
of the quaint village 
stork’s nest. of Amesbury, with its 
little church where Tom Pinch played the organ to the great 
satisfaction of his master Pecksniff. On our return from the 
site of Druidical worship some birds rose from the ground 
and mounted spirally upward. Suddenly we heard a sog n far 
above us. In transport we asked our driver what the birds 
were. “The skylark, Mum,” was the reply that thrilled us. 
We looked in vain for the singer. He was hidden in space 
as if he were etheralized, his little body molten into a chain of 
song. The musician of the family questioned if the song itself 
would have been so remarkable if divested of the charm of mys - 
stery and distance. It is useless to attempt a description of the 
song. Amid those new and rich associations, where history and 
legend and poetry combined to lift our souls to heights hith¬ 
erto unsealed, the bird’s song transcended thought. Thus we left 
England with fewer regrets, for the song of the skylark was in 
our hearts. 
