Those supplied by Larks.

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like a hen; the high feeder lives like a fightingcock. Birds and their belongings furnish abundant imagery. Nothing can be lighter than a feather, nothing can be softer than down. The locks of the hero are as black as a raven; the neck of his lady-love is as graceful as the swan's. I believe that these illustrations might be carried out to much greater length by any one who would take the pains. The thoughtless little school-boy repeats his lesson like a parrot. The confident assertor of his vulgar rights claims his privilege of speech, crying, "Every cock on his own dunghill," with which savoury simile we will pass back to larks.

The lark excels in supply of illustration. I cannot find out whether there are any ornithological elements in the mudlark; but the exhilarated disturber of our first sleep, the ravisher of knockers, is said, by what connection I know not, to be "sky-larking;" the

sky," however, is now generally dropped, and the misguided "gent." sums up his exploits simply as a " lark." How the little bird we are considering came to have his title so dishonoured, may of course be accounted for in various ingenious but unsatisfactory ways. Probably, there is some reference to the over

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Larks widely distributed.

flow of spirits which seems to distinguish the songster.

But to leave these questionable illustrations, we come to a group both obvious and happy. The early man rises with the lark. Do we want to express a pleasant combination of brightness and activity, we say such a one is as fresh as a lark. And when we have listened to the joyous flexible song of an unaffected girl, we feel we are paying no ill compliment when we say she sings like a lark. Now, there is no other bird which provides so many illustrations. The lark has touched our hearts oftener than any other songster of its size, and made the most varied and distinct impression on the

memory.

Larks are found all over Europe, but being hardy and prolific, survive in large numbers the war which is continually made against them. Being, as we have seen, good to eat, they are persecuted even in England, where so few small birds find their way either into the market or on to the table. Abroad, as we know, all manner of small game are sought after and cooked. I remember once, while going down the Rhone in a steamer, being offered a bunch of raw water-wagtails to eat at one of the villages where the boat touched.

On some parts of the Continent the lark's curiosity is employed to destroy him. He is an inquisitive bird, and will hover over an object for the purpose of inspection. Knowing this, the sportsman fixes into the ground a little whirligig, covered with bits of looking glass, which he spins by means of a string.

The larks, seeing the glittering machine from a great distance, hasten to investigate, and hover over it within shot. With us, they are killed for the table in winter, especially in the snow, when they congregate in large flocks, and sometimes enable the pothunter to bag several at one discharge. They are also netted in large numbers. Lark-shooting, however, is carried on in some parts quite in a sportsman-like way; I mean the birds are put up by walking the stubble, and are killed singly on the wing. This is considered good practice for young shots, and may be had best during the months of November and December, if the weather be open. In frost and snow, the birds flock, and when once disturbed, will often rise to a great height, out of range, and fly away to a considerable distance. But they are so fond of some spots, that, however persecuted, they are sure soon

to return. They love mostly warm upland soils. I remember some fields, about a mile from my home, when I was a boy, where larks were certain to be found, whatever the weather. There they sang earliest in the spring; there they flocked when the snow fell, and the frost hardened the ground. These fields sloped towards the south.

Probably most of my readers know that the lark alone of all our birds sings while on the wing, and never alights but on the ground. I say never, but I have once or twice seen a sky-lark make a bungling attempt to perch for a minute on a hedge. Its claws are not formed to grasp a twig, the hinder ones being very long. This bird, however, will sometimes remove its eggs and helpless young by taking them up in its feet, when circumstances render the position of its nest dangerous. This removal of the household is strictly a "flitting." Its nest is always on the ground, and often carelessly built; the eggs, four or five in number, vary in colour, being suited, doubtlessly, to the prevailing tint of the soil. I noticed some last year in a slate district in Cumberland, tinted exactly like the broken pieces of that material; while in

The lonely Nest.

89

earthy-looking soils I have observed a useful tinge of brown.

We cannot but admire the Providence which enables this bird so readily to drop upon the very spot where its nest is concealed, after soaring long up in the sky, a nest which seems to have nothing to mark its position, and which a man may sometimes search for in vain, even though he may have marked the spot within a few yards. I was much struck with this last summer. I was climbing a mountain covered with short grass, a huge stack of turf, joining the Helvellyn range; a lark brushed up at my feet, and flew far away. Stooping down, I discovered a nest with five eggs.

How could she, thought I, find this warm little home again; this tiny hidden spot on the great mountain's breast, where for miles there was nothing but a monotonous green carpet, unbroken by bush or rock, not a path, landmark, or signpost to guide her back to her home? Nothing but the unerring instinct, unassisted by any sense, which God had given her for a guide! Sure, thought I, here is a little parable, without words, telling those who will learn, that though to all appearance the