It was a beautiful morning, cool and still. The world of sunlight all seemed to be above the trees, an over-sea of gold, of which the long arcades of intermingling boughs afforded but glimpses.
Near the wayside resting-place was a field bordered with trees. A speck of a bird rose from it out of the grass uttering a few notes that attracted the boys’ attention. Up, up it went like a rocket, and as it rose higher and higher its song became sweeter and sweeter,—a happy, trilling melody, which made every boy leap to his feet, and try to find a place where he could see it through the openings in the trees.
“The bird seems to have gone straight up to heaven,” said Wyllys Wynn. “I can hardly see it; but I can hear its melody yet.”
“That is an English skylark,” said Master Lewis, “so famous in pastoral poetry. You now understand Tennyson’s meaning when he says,—
“‘The lark becomes a sightless song.’
I am glad you have seen it. I wish we might see more of common sights and scenes.
“I have here a letter from George Howe and Leander Towle, which greatly pleases me. My object is to take you to historic scenes. George and Leander have different tastes from yours, and expect to follow different occupations. They are making their journey a study of common life and its pursuits, as I would have them do.”
“Will you not read their letter to us?” asked Ernest.
“That was just what I was about to do,” said Master Lewis.
Caen, Normandy, July.