Now as Wanderer reached up to pick seeds from a weed-top, Peter had a good look at him. The first things he noticed were the two little horn-like tufts of black feathers above and behind the eyes. It is from these that Wanderer gets the name of Horned Lark. No other bird has anything quite like them. His forehead, a line over each eye, and his throat were yellow. There was a black mark from each corner of the bill curving downward just below the eye and almost joining a black crescent-shaped band across the breast. Beneath this he was soiled white with dusky spots showing here and there. His back was brown, in places having almost a pinkish tinge. His tail was black, showing a little white on the edges when he flew. All together he was a handsome little fellow.
“Do all of your family have those funny little horns?” asked Peter.
“No,” was Wanderer's prompt reply. “Mrs. Lark does not have them.”
“I think they are very becoming,” said Peter politely.
“Thank you,” replied Wanderer. “I am inclined to agree with you. You should see me when I have my summer suit.”
“Is it so very different from this?” asked Peter. “I think your present suit is pretty enough.”
“Well said, Peter, well said,” interrupted Snowflake. “I quite agree with you. I think Wanderer's present suit is pretty enough for any one, but it is true that his summer suit is even prettier. It isn't so very different, but it is brighter, and those black markings are much stronger and show up better. You see, Wanderer is one of my neighbors in the Far North, and I know all about him.”
“And that means that you don't know anything bad about me, doesn't it?” chuckled Wanderer.
Snowflake nodded. “Not a thing,” he replied. “I wouldn't ask for a better neighbor. You should hear him sing, Peter. He sings up in the air, and it really is a very pretty song.”
“I'd just love to hear him,” replied Peter. “Why don't you sing here, Wanderer?”