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Updated: June 28, 2025
Pettigrew passed with five of the children in the buggy and asked if I knew there was a telegram for me at the station. I told her I did not, and my heart got right where hearts always get when telegrams are mentioned, and in the twinkling of an eye Skylark's bridle was on and I on Skylark, and we raced like mad to town.
As neat of plumage, and as busy and talkative about small domestic matters as the robin, Bobby loved to watch the wifie stirring savory messes over the fire, watering her posies, cleaning the fluttering skylark's cage, or just sitting by the hearth or in the sunny doorway with him, knitting warm stockings for her rheumatic gude-mon.
"You'll take the mast out of her, Don John," said Ned Patterdale, wiping the salt water from his face. "If I do, I'll put in another," replied Donald. "But you can't snap that stick. The Skylark's mast will go by the board first, and then it will be time enough to look out for ours." "You have beaten her, Don John," added Ned. "Not yet. 'There's many a slip between the cup and the lip."
"We are beating the Skylark without manoeuvring; and that is the fairest way in the world to do it." "This is plain sailing, sir; and the Skylark's best point is on the wind. For aught I know, the Maud may do the best with a free wind," said Donald; and he had well nigh shuddered when he thought of the difference in yachts in this respect.
When we reached the porch the Philosopher was missing. There is no explanation except that he went out by the pantry door. On the porch the Skeptic said, "I must run down to the barn and look after Skylark's foot. He cut himself when I was out on him yesterday." He hastened away down the driveway. Dahlia looked after him. "Is Skylark here?" she asked. "Oh, how I want to see the dear thing!
This is how they begin," and leaning on the low gate of his cottage entrance he recited softly, with half-closed eyes: In the flowering-time of year When the heavens were crystal clear, And the skylark's singing sweet Close against the sun did beat, All the sylphs of all the streams, All the fairies born in dreams, All the elves with wings of flame, Trooping forth from Cloudland came To the wooing of Maryllia!
Are you attending lectures at the Sorbonne? Are you learning to sing? and, if so, who is your teacher? You sing, Jeanne, of course. You remind me of a bird. You have all the quick and easy graces of the skylark. Why should you not have the skylark's voice? Fabien, you are dropping into poetry! April 3d. For a month I have written nothing in this brown notebook.
She had never even heard of Wordsworth; yet, as she listened to the first cuckoo note, she thought it no bird, but truly "a wandering voice." Of Shelley's glorious lyric ode she knew nothing; and yet she never heard the skylark's song without thinking it a spirit of the air, or one of the angels hymning at Heaven's gate.
In one the soul responds to the skylark's music "singing at heaven's gate," in the other not; to one the roasted lark is merely a savoury morsel; the other, be he never so hungry, cannot dissociate the bird on the dish from that heavenly melody which registered a sensation in his brain, to be thereafter reproduced at will, together with the revived emotion.
"Ay, but there is a finer sort of rabble a rabble of quality beginning with his Majesty, that are always pleased with anything new. And this little creature is as fresh as a spring morning. To see her laugh, to hear the ring of it, clear and sweet as a skylark's song! On my life, madam, the town has a new toy; and Mrs. Gwyn will be the rage in high quarters.
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