"There was a jolly miller once, Lived on the River Dee; He work'd and sung from morn to night, No lark more blithe than he." Several attempts to introduce the English skylark into America have been made, with no satisfactory results. It is hoped to some day have them feel at home on the Pacific coast, where the varying moist and dry climates of north and south would give them the pleasures of their natural migrations. But although we may never have the skylark with us, we have its relative in our horned or shore larks. In its habits it resembles its lark kindred in the Old World, singing on the wing, nesting on the ground, feeding on the same food, walking rapidly, reserving flight as the last resort when pursued. The horned lark is so named on account of a little tuft of feathers on each side of the forehead, which it raises or lowers at pleasure. It nests in the North very early, even before the snow is all melted, and brings off two or more broods in a season. In the autumn it exchanges its beautiful song for a good appetite, and fattens itself on grains and berries in anticipation of possible winter hunger. It may be seen all over North America at some season of the year, in fall and winter in flocks. In California we have the Mexican horned larks, which cover the mesas and rise reluctantly in large numbers when surprised. They love to follow the open country roads, running out of the track while we pass, but returning as soon as we have gone our way. On rainy days--which, by the way, are the best of bird days--we have taken our umbrellas and strolled out to the flat lands on purpose to see these larks in their greatest numbers. They will fly, with a whirr of sound, and alight almost at our feet, to repeat the act for a mile if we choose. In midsummer they are seen in the vicinity of their nesting-places, standing in rows under fences or plants with mouths wide open, seeming to choose hot sand to flying straight across the short desert to mountain retreats. The horned larks, wherever seen, suggest contentment, and pleasure in life as they find it. CHAPTER XIV BOBOLINK "June! dear June! Now God be praised for June." 'Nuff said; June's bridesman, poet o' the year, Gladness on wings, the bobolink is here; Half hid in tiptop apple-blooms he sings, He climbs against the breeze with quiverin' wings. Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despair. Runs down, a brook o' laughter, through the air. Lowell. He was just a bird to start with, half blackbird and the other half sparrow, with some of the meadow-lark's ways of getting along. As to the naming of him, everybody settled that matter at random, until one day he grew tired of being called nicknames and named himself.