hes, and by accident punctured the fleshy corner
of its mouth with a sharp cactus thorn, and had to jerk itself loose,
bringing the blood from the lacerated part. Meanwhile the mother lark
went calmly about her household duties, merely keeping a watchful eye
on the human meddler, and making no outcry when she saw her infant in my
possession. I may have been _persona non grata_, but, if so, she did not
express her feeling. This was the youngest horned lark seen by me in my
rambles on the plains.

Perhaps the reader will care to know something about the winter habits
of these birds. They do not spend the season of cold and storm in the
mountains, not even those that breed there, for the snow is very deep
and the tempests especially fierce. Many of them, however, remain in the
foothills and on the mesas and plains, where they find plenty of seeds
and berries for their sustenance, unless the weather chances to be
unusually severe. One winter, not long ago, the snow continued to lie
much longer than usual, cutting off the natural food supply of the
larks. What regimen did they adopt in that exigency? They simply went to
town. Many of the kindly disposed citizens of Colorado Springs scattered
crumbs and millet seeds on the streets and lawns, and of this supply the
little visitors ate greedily, becoming quite tame. As soon, however, as
the snow disappeared they took their departure, not even stopping to say
thanks or adieu; although we may take it for granted that they felt
grateful for favors bestowed.

Besides the horned larks, many other birds were found on the plain. Next
in abundance were the western meadow-larks. Persons who live in the
East and are familiar with the songs of the common meadow-lark, should
hear the vocal performances of the westerners. The first time I heard
one of them, the minstrelsy was so strange to my ear, so different from
anything I had ever heard, I was thrown into an ecstasy of delight, and
could not imagine from what kind of bird larynx so quaint a medley could
emanate. The song opened with a loud, fine, piercing whistle, and ended
with an abrupt staccato gurgle much lower in the musical staff, sounding
precisely as if the soloist's performance had been suddenly choked off
by the rising of water in the windpipe. It was something after the order
of the purple martin's melodious sputter, only the tones were richer and
fuller and the music better defined, as became a genuine oscine. His
sudden an