“Nay, not so big as a turkey, lad; I dunno what they call ’em. I call ’em Argentine larks.”
“What?” cried Rob, with a laugh.
“Ah, you may grin, my lad, but it ain’t such a bad name; and if you’d seen ’em do what I have, you’d say so too.”
“What do you mean?” said Rob; “do they make their nests on the ground?”
“I don’t know nothing about their nests, but I’ll tell you what they do: they rise off the ground and fly up in the air higher and higher, and sail round and round singing just like a lark does, only lots of times as loud.”
Rob looked keenly in the man’s face.
“Oh, I ain’t a-stuffing of you with nonsense, my lad; that ’ere’s a nat’ral history fact. They flies up singing away till they’re out of sight, and the music comes down so soft and sweet then that it makes you want more and more, as you get thinking of when you was away in the country at home.”
“But that bird was so big,” cried Rob.
“All the better, my lad. Holds more music and sings all the longer.”
“Caught anything?” asked Joe from the boat, for both lines had been cast now, and the lads were patiently holding the ends.