"On what shall you feed your little ones?"
"When I tell you, you will see again that I am wise in choosing this place for a nest.
"My babies need never grow hungry, for the grass seeds are always falling. The beetles and worms and ants are always walking by. The moths and the butterflies are for ever laying their eggs in all sorts of convenient places. You remember how their eggs do not hatch out into butterflies and moths at once. They are just ugly little worms called grubs."
"Yes," said Phyllis, "I remember."
The meadow lark carefully tucked an egg farther under her soft brown feathers.
"I am glad," she said, "that my eggs do not hatch out as grubs. Perhaps if they did, I should care no more for my babies than the butterfly does for hers. I am told that she does not even know her own children."
"You are quite right," said Phyllis. "She herself told me so."
The meadow lark gave a low whistle and nervously flitted her tail, showing the white feathers with which it was edged.
"It has been some time since I have heard your clear, sweet whistle," said Phyllis. "I thought you must have left our meadow. You have a most beautiful voice."
"Oh, no, we shall not soon leave your meadow, Phyllis. In the autumn we may join a party of larks and take our family to the marshes for awhile, but we shall return. Meadow larks do sometimes go south for the winter, but usually they live their lives in their home meadows."