H

AS any one ever told you that they were “happy as a lark,” and have you stopped to think how happy a lark is?—its joyous flight up into the sky, as high or higher than the sight of man can reach, singing louder and louder, and more and more gayly the higher it ascends? When the sweet hay-time comes on, and mowers are busy in the fields with their great scythes, it is sometimes a dangerous season for larks, who make their nests on the ground. Often the poor little nests must suffer; but only think how ingenious their owners are if they do. A mower once cut off the upper part of a lark's nest. The lark sitting in it was uninjured. The man was very sorry for what he had done; but there was no help for it—at least so he thought. The lark knew better, and soon afterward a beautiful dome was found made of grass over the nest by the patient, brave bird.