By this time the lark was standing on the edge of his nest and looking at the children.
"Poor little things! You can't fly," said the lark.
"No; but we can look up," said Tricksey.
"Ah, you don't know what it is to see the very first of the sun."
"But we know what it is to wait till he comes. He's no worse for your seeing him first, is he?"
"Oh no, certainly not," answered the lark, with condescension, and then, bursting into his Jubilate, he sprang aloft, clapping his wings like a clock running down.
"Tell us where—" began Buffy-Bob.
But the lark was out of sight. His song was all that was left of him.
That was everywhere, and he was nowhere.
"Selfish bird!" said Buffy. "It's all very well for larks to go hunting the sun, but they have no business to despise their neighbours, for all that."
"Can I be of any use to you?" said a sweet bird-voice out of the nest.