There are a good many kinds of larks in the world, but only one comes to us, the Horned Lark, or shore lark. He differs a little in color in the various places he is found over our broad country, but not enough to call him another species.

In places where there is a great deal of rain, birds take on a slightly different shade from their brothers who live in dry places. So there are several varieties of the horned lark. But dress isn't everything, and, after all, he is the same bird in habits and manners wherever we find him in the United States. He is streaked brown on the back, and white below, with yellow throat and black and white markings.

The way you may always know a Prairie Horned Lark, of whom I will speak, is by the pretty little tufts of feathers that stand up on his head like horns, and the very long nail on his hind toe.

Another way you may know this bird is that he lives on the ground, and never perches in a tree. Sometimes he gets up on a fence to sing, but he likes best to run along the road, or in a field, and he never—never hops. The place to look for him is a field or pasture, or on a country road.

When insects are abroad, he eats the more dainty small ones, young grasshoppers and locusts before they get big and tough, small beetles and larvÆ; and baby larks are fed on them. But he doesn't starve when they are gone; he is fond of seeds of weeds and grasses.

The nest of the horned lark is on the ground, and the little mother is very clever in hiding it, and not showing people where it is. Many birds, you know, will stay on the nest till one almost steps on them, and then fly up with a great fuss, thus telling their secret. When the wise little lark sees one coming, she quietly slips off her nest. Then she crouches to the ground, and creeps away. When she thinks she is far enough, she rises to her full height, and begins to eat, or to walk around as if she had nothing on her mind, and there were no such thing as a nest anywhere about. No matter how long one may stay there hoping to find the nest, she will not go back, not even to see if it is safe, so long as any one is near. If all birds were so wily, there would be fewer nests robbed, and we should have more birds.

The little home so carefully guarded is well made. The bird scratches out a little hollow and lines it with grass or thistledown, that is, if she can't get what she likes best. Her choice is for nice soft mullein leaves, which she pulls to pieces. These, you know, are thick and smooth, and must make a warm, dry bed for the little larks.

The brave little mother nests so early that she is often caught in a snowstorm. Nests have been found with the bird on them, when the snow had to be brushed away to get at her, actually sitting under the snow.

When the young larks can run about, and before they can fly, the father takes them in charge. Then the mother sits again, and hatches out another brood.

The horned lark sings on the wing, as does the skylark of Europe that we've heard so much about. It is supposed that he cannot equal that famous bird, but so few have heard him, it is hardly safe to say so. I once heard a horned lark sing. He ran across the road in front of the carriage, flew to a fence, and gave an exquisite little song. If it had come down to us while the singer was soaring about over our heads, I think few bird songs could have excelled it.

The feather tufts which are called horns stand up when the bird is excited. Usually they lie back nearly flat on the head.

In the picture you can see one of these birds in his usual attitude, walking.