"He is our sentinel," said the meadow lark. "He is on the lookout for danger. When he gives the alarm, the rest of the flock know there is danger near.
"When we hear the sentinel's alarm we are off in an instant. We fly high into the air. Did you not notice how I hovered near the grass-tops for a moment and then rose high into the air?"
"Yes," answered Phyllis, "and I knew that you were a lark because of that whirring sound you made when flying."
"Ah, but I am not really a lark at all," said the bird. "I am called the meadow lark, but in truth I belong to the blackbird family. The red-winged blackbird is an own cousin of mine. So also is the oriole, who builds a queer hanging nest in the tree-tops.
"The oriole is very proud of her woven nest, but I should consider it a dangerous place for bird babies. My little ones will never be hurt by falling from their nest.
"Neither can I imagine how any bird can dare to build in such an open place.
"My home is hidden here amid the grasses. Sometimes we find places like this, where the grass blades naturally arch over and hide the nest.
"Sometimes we weave a sort of arch over the nest with the downy, fine fibres from the grass leaves.
"Did you notice the little lane down which I returned to my tiny home?"
"No," said Phyllis, "I thought you just came through the grasses by the easiest way."