The meadow starlings are short-tailed birds who live on the ground. They have long bills and mixed sort of plumage, of browns and yellows.

Our common one, called the Meadowlark or Old-Field Lark, though he is not really a lark, is a beautiful bird. He is larger than a robin, and his mottled feathers are set off by a bright yellow breast, with a black crescent under the throat.

This bird lives in the meadows or pastures, and walks about on the ground, where he gets his food. When he wants to sing, he flies up on to a fence, or stands up very straight on a bit of turf, or a stone, and sings away a long time. It is a sweet song, or rather several sweet songs, for he does not always sing the same one.

The mother lark looks like her mate. She makes her nest on the ground, and a snug and cozy home it is. It is none of the open, cup-like nests that anybody can see into. It has a roof, if you please, and sometimes a covered way—like a hall—leading to it. The roof of the nest is made by drawing the grass stems over it and weaving them together. So it is very hard to find. And it is hidden in the long meadow grass besides.

You might think the little family would get hurt when the haymakers came to cut the grass. So they would, if they happened to be there. But lark babies are out of the egg before that time, and they run about as soon as they can stand. Sometimes when a nest has been disturbed, and the birds have had to make a second one, the little ones are not out when the mowers come on. Then there are apt to be sad times in the family. But I have known mowers who carefully cut around a nest, and did not hurt the nestlings. That is a good thing to do, for the birds are so useful and such fine singers that we want as many as we can have.

The meadowlark is a shy bird, and so is more often heard than seen. His song is charming, and he has besides a strange call, a sort of harsh sputter, or chatter, sometimes as he flies over. No doubt he has many more ways of expressing himself, but these are the ones we most often hear.

The Western Meadowlark looks like the Eastern, except that he is a little paler and grayer in color. He has the same general habits, but he is a much finer singer. The song is wilder and has more variety, and sometimes it is very brilliant. It is different in every way from the quiet, rather sad notes that make the Eastern bird so winning.

The Western bird is not so timid as his Eastern brother. He often comes into the towns and sings from the tops of houses. The finest singer I ever heard sang every day from the peak of a low roof. His song to his mate is most charming. It is so low and tender one can hardly hear it.

I once saw a pair of the Western birds nest-making. The little builder was busy filling her beak with dried grasses and such things. For these she had to fly across the road where I sat. Her mate went with her every time. He perched on the fence while she gathered her beakful, watching that no harm came to her. When she went back, he flew across with her and perched on a tree on that side.

All the time he was singing the sweetest low warble, and all the time he was keeping a sharp watch on me. In the West this bird eats beetles, grasshoppers, and the disgusting big black crickets that do so much damage.