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Updated: September 2, 2025
"Thy tongue carols as easily as a lark's," said Valencia, with but half-concealed bitterness. "Thou couldst sing all day, and the next forget." "I forget nothing, beautiful señorita, neither the fair days of spring nor the ugly storms of winter. And I love the sunshine and flee from the tempest. Adan, brother of my heart, welcome as ever to Casa Grande Ay! here is my father.
And what was there in the tussock of grass but a tiny cup-like nest in the ground, lined with dry grass, and covered snugly over by the lark's little brown wife, who was keeping the little ones warm, while her husband had been up almost out of sight in the bright sunny air singing her one of his sweetest songs, a song so sweet that the birds had all stayed from their work to listen.
If you find it, all right; but I wouldn't show it to my very best friend, and I guess I haven't any better friend than you, Peter." Then from sheer happiness he whistled, " Bob White! Bob Bob White!" with all his might. Peter was disappointed and a little put out. "I guess," said he, "I could find it if I wanted to. I guess it isn't any better hidden than Mrs. Meadow Lark's, and I found that.
"As soon as Tricksey-Wee had finished her song, the lark's wife began a low, sweet, modest little song of her own; and after she had piped away for two or three minutes, she said: "'You dear children, what can I do for you? "'Tell us where the she-eagle lives, please, said Tricksey-Wee.
I could find no hieroglyphic suit in which to clothe the name Ernest; but since I had become keeper of men, mice, and morals in Sir Marcus Lark's floating zoo, Monny's craze for Egyptianizing everything had suggested the nickname of Men-Kheper-Ra. I patted myself on the back, put the letter in the ground; and the digging party was a wild success; but time passed on, and I had no answer.
I was sorry for the "boss," though a snub or two would be good for him, no doubt, and perhaps were being specially provided by a wise Providence. But I had other things to think of than Sir Marcus Lark's love-troubles: Monny, for instance, who at last had found a letter from "Madame Wretched" in Cairo, and had wonderful schemes in her head.
He sang of the lark, and it was the lark's voluble self. The physical beauty of humanity lent itself to every object, animate or inanimate, to the very hours and lapses and changes of time itself. An almost burdensome fulness of expression haunted the gestures, the very dress, the personal ornaments, of the people on the highway.
He must have flown higher than usual this time. How I should like to know where he goes, and what he hears in that curious blue sky! He always sings going up and coming down, but he never lets any secret out." And the green caterpillar took another turn round the butterfly's eggs. At last the lark's voice began to be heard again.
"Now, Squire Cricket, if you will use this mixture, a spoonful every hour, and rub a little cure-all salve under your red flannel at night, we'll soon have your voice as clear as a lark's, and the soreness all gone. How many kiddies shall you send to my grand-daughter's summer school, Mistress Cricket?" "Our two children, Sammie and Fidelia, must go. I hope Miss Squeaky will teach music.
As I write the monastery bell hard by rings out across the lark's song. They still have time for visions behind those guarding walls, but for most of us it is not so.
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