But what is this? It is a
change of scene. Away up in
the morning sky, oh, how blue
it is! and the light fleecy clouds, how they
float in folds of white ether! The Sun
has climbed higher. It is now above
the tallest of the poplars; and the long
shadows cast by trunks and stems and
branches are visibly shortened. And
see! the cattle are again lowing in the
fat meadows, and by degrees beating
a safe retreat from the coming heat
under the forest trees.
High in that bright dome of azure,
there is a delightful frolicsome twitter
heard. It is not the Nightingale; no,
not so clear and mellow as that. Not
the Thrush; no, not so loud or gushing
as that. It is our little friend the
Lark. Oh! how merry he is! more so
than either of the other two. And
what is he about? He seems to be
floating and soaring, sauntering and
curtseying, skimming and dipping, rollicking
and frolicking--now up, now
down--now describing gyrations, now
imitating a pendulum--now trying to be
so steady with his fluttering wings, that
he looks like a star twinkling in the day-time--in
short, playing all sorts of droll
antics, indulging in every imaginable
pirouette and somersault, in all the
world (in his case _above_ the world) like a
school-boy beginning his holidays; certainly
appearing to put himself to a great
deal of unnecessary trouble and exertion.
But he is unmistakably, with his
winning ways, about _something_, and
something to the purpose. But what
that is, no mortal could guess. As the
thing however must be guessed, or
otherwise found out, Gentle Reader,
I shall take you into confidence, and
unriddle the secret.
The Queen of the Morning, as you
already know, or at all events know
now, had come with all her court, and
troupe of gay courtiers. The Young
Hours had unbarred for her the Gates
of Day, and she at once sallied forth.
Beautiful little pages in the shape of
pink clouds, quite like tiny angels
with wings, were holding up her train.
Some of those fairy cherubs seemed, too,
to have censers in their hands, at least
if one could judge from the delicate
wreaths of mist which rose like incense
from them. Others appeared to be
discharging tiny golden arrows from
silver bows; others to paint, with
invisible pencils, in delicate and varying
hues of amber and purple, the fringes
of clouds; while the Queen herself at
times laid her own finger upon the
larger of these, and braided them with
snow and crimson. And then, how
loyal everything seemed to be on the
earth beneath! How each flower that
had been asleep all night instantly
rose on awaking, and, in the most
duteous manner uncovering its head,
prepared to take its place in the royal
procession. The more gorgeous ones
of the garden led the way, with their
velvet tassels, and silken brocades, and
pendants of opal and turquoise; some
apparently carrying chalices filled with
nectar. Then the fields and hedgerows,
in their rough, rustic, plebeian fashion,
with their fustian jackets and smock-frocks,
said--"We shall not be behind
our betters;" so their buttercups and
wood-anemones, speedwell and scarlet
pimpernel, the meadow violet with its
modest blue, the cowslip with its burnished
cells, the daisy with its "golden
eye and white silver eyelashes," all did
fealty to their adored Queen. Some
went down on their knees; others doffed
their caps; others smiled bewitchingly;
others could do nothing but waft sweet
perfumes. There were even bands of
very varied music and musicians, all
assisting with their efforts in swelling
the Queen's Anthem. The brook,
though it had sung all night, and had
need of a little respite, seemed to say--"No,
I shall go warbling on; she shall
have my very best treble of a ripple."
And then there were minor performers
in this nature-choir. The Blackbird
and Redbreast, Goldfinch and Linnet,
and Chaffinch, each took part with
striking effect. Even the Swallow
in his own quiet way twittered, and the
Tomtit chattered, and the Beetle
droned, and the Bee hummed, and the
big Dragon-fly, in armour of brightest
cobalt, whirred; and the Grasshopper,
poor fellow! did his very uttermost,--he
chirruped, he could do no more.
The Butterfly, who could not raise
a single note, came out in his best
plush court-dress of gold, vermilion,
and blue, dainty little silent outrider
that he is, waking up any exceptional
sleepers. He carried, truth to
say, his zeal sometimes too far; as
when I saw him unjustly reproaching
the Foxglove for having bells and not
ringing them, a thing they were never
meant to do. Even the Spider hung
his silver-tissued web from spray to
spray; as if he had weaved a gossamer
mantle, in case his Queen might like to
use it in the chill of early dawn. (_See
Frontispiece_.)
Well, the latter--I mean the Queen--at
last came to a pause, and, with most
radiant grace in her countenance, she
put her hand up to her crown, and took
out the diamond. There was a little
pet of a crimson cloud that happened
to be floating past at the moment.
She laid the lustrous gem on this
roseate pillow; and then, slowly and
gradually, she and all her retainers,
in ghostly shape, vanished clean from
sight.
* * * * *
But what, you will say, has all this
to do with our friend the Lark? His
quick little eye had discerned what your
dull sight and mine could not. He had
watched everything I have now described.
How indeed could he miss
seeing that flashing speck of light lying
so daintily on its cushion of state? No
wonder he circles and zigzags, and does
bird-homage to the brightest gem of
the Regalia. Up, down--hither, thither--just
as I have already told, doing
obeisance in every possible and conceivable
way; till at last, poising
himself immediately above, fluttering
with all his might, and settling himself
in the fixed attitude in which the lark
family are such adepts, he mustered up
courage and said--
"Pretty sparkling thing! I know what
you are. You are a rare diamond just
taken from the crown of the Queen of
the Morning. But, I confess, you look,
too, very like the Dewdrop I spied at a
distance, a few hours ago, on the tip of
a rose-leaf."
"What a capital guesser you are,
tiny minstrel," was the reply; "but you
had better leave me with my diamond
name, at all events for the present. I
shall not say whether some scientific
bird-winged philosophers are right or
wrong when they aver that, though the
Queen of the Morning borrowed me, I
am really and truly a jewel from the
crown of the Sun; that when he took
off his royal robes last evening, to lay
his head on his nightly pillow, I
dropped out of his crown, and tumbled
down to the earth. I may tell you, however,
confidentially (just in a whisper,
you know)," added the brilliant speaker,
"that though they call me Diamond, I
like quite as well the name with which
God's beautiful mist baptized me, that
of _Dewdrop_. But I have brief time
(indeed no time) to converse further
with you now. You have seen, a
short while ago, how the Queen of
the Morning vanished. Will you be
astonished when I tell you that I am
about to do the very same myself? I
am going," it continued, "to my Palace
yonder" (an extra gleam, in the absence
of a finger, was its own special way of
pointing upwards). "I have said my
_Palace_--I should rather perhaps say,
my _Home_. We may meet," it added,
"pretty soaring warbler, on the way to
it. But please leave me now."
What I have said of the Thrush was
true also of the Lark. He was a
peculiarly biddable and discreet bird,
and when he got a hint he always took
it. Moreover, the Dewdrop had spoken
so courteously (he thought condescendingly)
to him, he would not for the
world intrude his company longer than
desired. The other evidently wished
to be all alone, to pack up and prepare
for this great and distant journey.
So the Lark plunged down to the
stream among the alders to bathe his
wings and refresh himself. After the
lustrations were duly completed, up
again he rose like an arrow into the
bright, blue sky. Says he to himself,
"I shall certainly be on the sharp out-look
for that ascent of the Dewdrop.
I can at all events be a silent spectator,
if my services cannot otherwise be of
use." And, to be sure, he did not
require to watch long; for, with that
keenness of perception that belonged
to all his ancestors, he found that he
had soared right into the very midst of
a golden mist. Some people say and
believe (though I am not wise enough
in bird-lore to know the truth of it),
that the lark family have eyes almost
like a microscope; things invisible to
us are said to be quite visible, and
indeed conspicuous, to them. At all
events, this was true in the case of the
present representative of that discriminating
race. So that what, if we had
been there, would only have seemed an
aggregation of glistening atoms, were
to him nothing less than a vast army in
visible shape--chariots and charioteers,
knights mounted on steeds with white
trappings and gold and silver bridles;
other horsemen carrying glittering
spears, polished shields, and flashing
swords; others bearing standards of
cloth of gold. I am only telling you
what the Lark saw, or thought he saw;
and a most wonderful army on march
you can very well believe it was.
[Illustration]
Oh, just see how he twitters and
carols, as I have more than once
pictured, and cannot do so too often--shaking
first his little wings, and then
his little throat; the old zigzagging
to and fro--here, there, everywhere--whisking
in this direction, and bouncing
in that direction, restless gymnastic
that he is, in a very whirl and vortex
of excitement!
"You told me, a little while ago,"
said he, mustering up courage, with an
effort, to speak to this wondrous mass
of knight-errantry; "at all events the
Diamond-drop, of which I know you are
the fragments, told me you were going
to some Palace in the sky. Where is
that?"
"It is our _Home_, soaring warbler,"
said the million million little voices,
their spears and helmets flashing brightly
in the radiance, their horses prancing
and pawing the path of light--"It
is Home, Home, Home!" said the
myriads, the very air tremulous with
the shout.
"Yes, but where is that?" repeated
the Lark, determined to come to the
point, and not to be numerically extinguished,
as he darted like lightning
round and round the brilliant host.
"The Sun! the Sun!" one after
another made answer. The Dewdrop
was a tear that fell from the sky because
the Sun was gone. But, as you
have just told us, we are all parts of it--everyone
of us are; and we are on our
way again to the golden entrance to his
Palace.
The army of misty globules rose
and rose, higher and yet higher. They
seemed, too, to get brighter and brighter
in the ascent, the Lark rising with them,
indeed till his little wings were tired.
Then when he felt that he could act as
convoy no farther, down he came at
one long unpausing dart to the furrow
adjoining the wooded dell below, which
was now all streaked with fleckered
light. He thought (and we shall not
quarrel with the fancy) that these
patches of light were nothing else than
the golden arrows he had seen shot from
the bow of the Cherubs--the little
Angels of the Dawn--and that they
were now lying thick in the green
arcade. He just took breath, after the
exhaustion and excitement, alike of
both body and mind, which his aerial
adventure had entailed; and then
hastened straight to the home of the
Nightingale and Thrush, to tell of the
glorious ascent (what the old and learned
creatures of the earth would have called
the apotheosis) of the Dewdrop on
the rose-leaf; its severance into a
million fragments; and how these,
in the shape of a great army, had
marched right within