There is one exception, the skylark, and inasmuch as I have never heard it singing in the dark, I always consider it either the sleepiest or the most methodical of all birds. To call the lark lazy and a "slug-abed," to use Shakespeare's word, sounds, I know, like treason, for has not every poet from Chaucer onwards told us that it wakes the day; and is not "to rise with the lark" a household word for being up very early? But if we come to prosy facts, they are all dead against the skylark, for by the time it begins to think of awaking the day, the other birds have been already doing it for hours. Of course, it may be that the sun does not pay any attention to the other birds, regards them as unlicensed watchmen who have no business to try and wake him up before his proper time, and that he waits for the lark, as the only genuine certificated waker-up of the firmament, before he gets out of bed. Robins and blackcaps, woodlarks and reed-warblers are perhaps mere irresponsible amateurs. The skylark is the one properly diploma'd professor. He alone really knows when the sun ought to be awakened; the rest only think they know. To tell the truth, if Phœbus were to attend to every bird that chooses to call him, he might just as well breakfast overnight; lie down on the sofa with his hat and boots on, or not go to sleep at all. Moreover, the skylark has the merit of punctuality and is regular. He is always up and singing by the time there is light enough to see him by. The sun can rely upon him, which is more than can be said for the robin, who, though I do not wish to say anything about him that might injure his character, sings in the mornings decidedly tipsily, as if he had been out all night at a party and were just coming home "with the milk."