It is in these smaller Flemish towns that the visitor who takes the time to journey a little away from the closely built houses and rough paved streets of the city will find himself after a few minutes of brisk walking out in the green fields and winding lanes of the open country. The trip is well worth the small exertion, for nowhere in the world can one see such marvellous wild flowers—fleurs des champs—as in Belgium. Every wheat field is sprinkled with the most wonderful poppies, of a rich deep red that even the choicest artificial flowers in America cannot equal; with blue corn-flowers growing tall and big and of an indescribably deep blue that at times shades into purple; and along the edges is a thin fringe of small purple flowers, shaped like morning glories but much smaller, the English name of which I do not know. In the grass of the pasture lands are innumerable tiny white marguerites, with here and there a tuft of daisies. Along the country lanes one can pick a score of other varieties of wild flowers which here bloom all summer long, not to mention the exquisite purple heather that makes every hillside glow with colour in August and throughout the fall. To us, however, the wheat fields with the poppies and corn-flowers were by far the most charming as we wandered up and down West Flanders in the month of June. Often one or the other grew so profusely as to give the whole field a rich mass of colour, at times all red, in other places a solid blue.
As we strolled along through these flower gardens of the fields we enjoyed still another treat, for everywhere in Belgium the skylarks abound in myriads. To one who has never heard them there are few enjoyments more exquisite than to watch and listen as these tiny minstrels of the sky go through their little performance. Suddenly, almost before the eye can locate it, one shoots upward from the waving wheat in front of us, his rich trills fairly making the air vibrate with melody. Higher and yet higher he goes, his little wings struggling wildly, as if the effort of flying and singing at the same time was too much for him. Never, for an instant, however, does the music stop, and as his tiny form rises farther and farther into the air he gradually begins to drive forward in a wide curve—but still rising and still fluttering madly—until he becomes a mere speck against the sky. Then, all at once, the fluttering wings spread outward and are still, and he begins to volplane slowly downward in a long slow sweep, while his notes become if possible more shrill and vibrating than ever. Then, like a flash, as he nears the ground, he darts sharply out of sight and the song is over.
All day long the pleasant, flower-bedecked fields ring with this music—at times a dozen are singing in the air at once. When the sun is high the birds often rise until completely out of sight, only their falling music telling the listener that they are still there. Toward evening the flights are shorter, but as the calm of approaching night settles over the broad and peaceful fields it seems as if the songs are sweeter than at any other time.
Two of the greatest English poets have given us wonderful word pictures of this marvellous little bird, which surely sings as sweetly in Belgium as in England. Shelley in his famous Ode, describes the song itself; his metre imitating the breathless rush of the aerial notes:
“Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
“Higher still and higher