"The habits of each little bird,
And all its patient skill,
Are surely taught by God Himself,
And ordered by His will."
The other day I saw a lark's nest. It was made upon the ground; for it is true that
"The bird which soars on highest wing,
Builds on the ground her lowly nest."
and I had to move aside the grass before I could see it. The parent-birds, I daresay, were somewhere near, but I found only the little ones, looking as if they were almost all mouth, so widely did they open their yellow beaks. If you find such a treasure, and are very careful not to touch, or even to peer and peep too much, you may have the great interest of watching over the rearing of the little family; seeing the parents bring them food, and teach them to fly; and then, when the brood has flown, the deserted nest will belong to you, if you choose to keep it; but I am afraid you would not care for a lark's nest, for it is not beautifully finished, as some birds' nests are, but really only the dry-grass lining of a hole in the ground. The eggs are brown, like the bird itself, which is so beautiful in its song—that lovely song which you can hear even when you can hardly see the tiny singer.
"Far in the downy cloud,"
or but a speck in the deep blue; for the lark will
"Soar up and up, quivering for very joy,"
singing all the time, till he is out of sight—yet never forget that low spot, hidden with grass, where his nest is.
You know why it is said that "the cuckoo builds no nest at all," don't you? May has a verse which calls him "a most conceited bird," because from the time when he comes back from Africa we hear him constantly calling his own name, 'coo-coo, coo-coo!' Still, I don't think the cuckoo should be called "conceited" when it is we who have given it its name from the call which is natural to it; but it is a most unfaithful bird, and leaves its little ones to be brought up by others, not taking the trouble to build a cradle for them, nor will the mother sit upon her eggs. I used to think the reason why we saw so few cuckoos was because this bird laid only one egg; but I have read that she lays eight, each one in the nest of some bird much smaller than herself. The cuckoo is grey, and about the size of a blackbird; but her eggs are small, not bigger than a hedge-sparrow's or a lark's. She lays her egg on the ground, and then lifts it with her bill into the nest which she has chosen. The stranger bird is hatched first, and always behaves as if the whole nest belonged to him. He grows bigger and bigger, until at last he throws the little sparrows over the side of the nest to make room for himself. When the "woolly bears "—the caterpillars on which they feed—are all gone the cuckoos fly off to find them in South Africa.
How different from this bird is the faithful dove, who would not desert her little one, even to save her own life! I must tell you the story of the particular dove of which I am thinking.