uch
more beautiful than I. My feathers seem pale and faded when I walk
beside him. When fall comes, however, my own colours will brighten."

"On what shall you feed your little ones?"

"When I tell you, you will see again that I am wise in choosing this
place for a nest.

"My babies need never grow hungry, for the grass seeds are always
falling. The beetles and worms and ants are always walking by. The
moths and the butterflies are for ever laying their eggs in all sorts
of convenient places. You remember how their eggs do not hatch out
into butterflies and moths at once. They are just ugly little worms
called grubs."

"Yes," said Phyllis, "I remember."

The meadow lark carefully tucked an egg farther under her soft brown
feathers.

"I am glad," she said, "that my eggs do not hatch out as grubs.
Perhaps if they did, I should care no more for my babies than the
butterfly does for hers. I am told that she does not even know her own
children."

"You are quite right," said Phyllis. "She herself told me so."

The meadow lark gave a low whistle and nervously flitted her tail,
showing the white feathers with which it was edged.

"It has been some time since I have heard your clear, sweet whistle,"
said Phyllis. "I thought you must have left our meadow. You have a
most beautiful voice."

"Oh, no, we shall not soon leave your meadow, Phyllis. In the autumn
we may join a party of larks and take our family to the marshes for
awhile, but we shall return. Meadow larks do sometimes go south for
the winter, but usually they live their lives in their home meadows."

"Then you will sing for me again?" asked the little girl.

"Oh, with pleasure," said the meadow lark.

"You remember how we used to sing in the spring? Just now our thoughts
are so taken up with our nesting that we have little time for song.
But later, when the little ones are able to care for themselves, I
shall gladly whistle to you once more."

"I shall listen for you," said Phyllis. "Just now I must go, for I
hear my mother's voice. Good-bye, meadow lark!"

And the meadow lark from her nest whistled a low good-bye.

THE SONG OF THE MERRY LARK[1]

Once there was an old gray pussy, and she went down into the meadow,
where she saw a merry lark flying among the tall reeds; and pussy said,
"Where are you going, little lark?"

And the merry lark answered, "I am going to the king to sing him a song
this fine May morning."

And pus