"It is your colour."
The meadow lark raised her head in gentle surprise.
"And what has my colour to do with my danger?" she asked.
"Why," said the little girl, feeling wondrous wise, "do you not see that the browns of your feathery dress are the same colours as the grass stems and the stubble amid which you brood and feed?"
"Why, so it is," said the meadow lark. "My back is brown, edged with brownish white. That is like the grass stems. I am streaked with black and brown and cream colours. That is like the blades of grass.
"My throat and breast are yellow like the stubble amid which I feed. You are wonderfully wise, Miss Phyllis."
"What a beautiful black crescent you have upon your breast," said Phyllis. "It was almost the first thing I noticed when I met you."
"Did you observe the dark brown lines on my head? They seem to cross my eyes."
"I think you are quite beautiful," said Phyllis.
"Ah, but you should see my mate," said the meadow lark. "He is much more beautiful than I. My feathers seem pale and faded when I walk beside him. When fall comes, however, my own colours will brighten."