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I hope they have not forgotten that they owe me a visit," said Fanny, with a voice more musical than the meadowlark's, and a smile more gentle and subduing than the moonlight melting on the wall. But Troffater was silent. His throat was so dry, and his tongue so thick, he could utter nothing in return.
"You're invited," said Mr. Meadowlark, "to sing before the Pleasant Valley Singing Society. And if you can pass the test you'll become a member." Bobby Bobolink was somewhat doubtful as he listened to Mr. Meadowlark's speech. "I'm afraid it will be difficult," he said. "Oh, no!" Mr. Meadowlark assured him. "You can pass the test easily enough."
But Mr. Meadowlark himself had a voice of remarkable sweetness. And many thought that it couldn't be equalled. "Bobby Bobolink will have to sing for us, just like anybody else, before we make him a member of this Society," Buddy Brown Thrasher cried, after he had given a whistle, "Wheeu!" as if to say that he, for one, doubted Mr. Meadowlark's words.
She might as well try to explain the sparkle of the sunshine, or the joyousness of the meadowlark's song in the spring, as to try to analyze the luminous wonder that had come into her own heart that day when the purple mist lay on the Tiger Hills, and the snowdrifts were beginning to sink and sag and break into little streams. It could not be done.
"The Thrasher's song is like some one talking cheerfully; the Meadowlark's is flute-like; the Oriole's is more like clarion notes; the Bobolink bubbles over like a babbling brook; while the dear little brown striped Song Sparrow, who is with us in hedge and garden all the year, sings pleasant home-like ballads."
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