My note-book of the past season is enriched with the unusual
incident of an English skylark in full song above an Esopus meadow.
I was poking about a marshy place in a low field one morning in
early May, when, through the maze of bird-voices,--laughter of
robins, call of meadowlarks, song of bobolinks, ditty of sparrows,
whistle of orioles, twitter of swallows,--with which the air was
filled, my ear suddenly caught an unfamiliar strain. I paused to
listen: can it be possible, I thought, that I hear a lark, or am I
dreaming? The song came from the air, above a wide, low meadow many
hundred yards away. Withdrawing a few paces to a more elevated
position, I bent my eye and ear eagerly in that direction. Yes,
that unstinted, jubilant, skyward, multitudinous song can be none
other than the lark's! Any of our native songsters would have
ceased while I was listening. Presently I was fortunate enough to
catch sight of the bird. He had reached his climax in the sky, and
was hanging with quivering wings beneath a small white cloud,
against which his form was clearly revealed. I had seen and heard
the lark in England, else I should still have been in doubt about
the identity of this singer. While I was climbing a fence I was
obliged to take my eye from the bird, and when I looked again the
song had ceased and the lark had gone. I was soon in the meadow
above which I had heard him, and the first bird I flushed was the
lark.
How strange he looked to my eye (I use the masculine gender because
it was a male bird, but an Irishman laboring in the field, to whom
I related my discovery, spoke touchingly of the bird as "she," and
I notice that the old poets do the same); his long, sharp wings,
and something in his manner of flight suggested a shore-bird. I
followed him about the meadow and got several snatches of song out
of him, but not again the soaring, skyward flight and copious
musical shower. By appearing to pass by, I several times got
within a few yards of him; as I drew near he would squat in the
stubble, and then suddenly start up, and, when fairly launched,
sing briefly till he alighted again fifteen or twenty rods away. I
came twice the next day and twice the next, and each time found
the lark in the meadow or heard his song from the air or the sky.
What was especially interesting was that the lark had "singled out
with affection" one of our native birds, and the one that most
resembled its kind, namely, the vesper sparrow, or grass finch. To
this bird I saw him paying his addresses with the greatest
assiduity. He would follow it about and hover above it, and by
many gentle indirections seek to approach it. But the sparrow was
shy, and evidently did not know what to make of her distinguished
foreign lover. It would sometimes take refuge in a bush, when the
lark, not being a percher, would alight upon the ground beneath it.
This sparrow looks enough like the lark to be a near relation. Its
color is precisely the same, and it has the distinguishing mark of
the two lateral white quills in its tail. It has the same habit of
skulking in the stubble or the grass as you approach; it is
exclusively a field-bird, and certain of its notes might have been
copied from the lark's song. In size it is about a third smaller,
and this is the most marked difference between them. With the
nobler bipeds, this would not have been any obstacle to the union,
and in this case the lark was evidently quite ready to ignore the
difference, but the sparrow persisted in saying him nay. It was
doubtless this obstinacy on her part that drove the lark away, for,
on the fifth day, I could not find him, and have never seen nor
heard him since. I hope he found a mate somewhere, but it is
quite improbable. The bird had, most likely, escaped from a cage,
or, maybe, it was a survivor of a number liberated some years ago
on Long Island. There is no reason why I the lark should not
thrive in this country as well as in Europe, and, if a few hundred
were liberated in any of our fields in April or May, I have little
doubt they would soon become established. And what an acquisition
it would be! As a songster, the lark is deserving of all the
praise that has been bestowed upon him. He would not add so much
to the harmony or melody of our bird-choir as he would add to its
blithesomeness, joyousness, and power. His voice is the jocund and
inspiring voice of a spring morning. It is like a ceaseless and
hilarious clapping of hands. I was much interested in an account a
friend gave me of the first skylark he heard while abroad. He had
been so full of the sights and wonders of the Old World that he had
quite forgotten the larks, when one day, as he was walking
somewhere near the sea, a brown bird started up in front of him,
and mounting upward began to sing. It drew his attention, and as
the bird went skyward, pouring out his rapid and jubilant notes,
like bees from a hive in swarming-time, the truth suddenly flashed
upon the observer.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "that is a skylark; there is no
mistaking that bird."
It is this unique and unmistakable character of the lark's song,
and its fountain-like sparkle and copiousness, that are the main
sources of its charm.