Then the red corn-poppies laughed at the homely looking bird, and cried to one another and to the surrounding blades of corn in a shrill voice, “Now, indeed, you may see what comes of flying so high, and striving and straining after mere air; people only lose their time, and bring back nothing but weary wings and an empty stomach. That vulgar-looking ill-dressed little creature would fain raise herself above us all, and has kept up a mighty noise. And now there she lies on the ground and can hardly breathe, while we have stood still where we are sure of a good meal, and have stayed, like people of sense, where there is something substantial to be had; and in the time she has been fluttering and singing, we have grown a good deal taller and fatter.” The other little redcaps chattered and screamed their assent so loud that the Child’s ears tingled, and he wished he could chastise them for their spiteful jeers; when a cyane said, in a soft voice, to her younger playmates, “Dear friends, be not led astray by outward show, nor by discourse which regards only outward show. The lark is, indeed, weary, and the space into which she has soared is void; but the void is not what the lark sought, nor is the seeker returned empty home. She strove after light and freedom, and light and freedom has she proclaimed. She left the earth and its enjoyments, but she has drunk of the pure air of heaven, and has seen that it is not the earth, but the sun that is steadfast. And if earth has called her back, it can keep nothing of her but what is its own. Her sweet voice and her soaring wings belong to the sun, and will enter into light and freedom long after the foolish prater shall have sunk and been buried in the dark prison of the earth.” And the lark heard her wise and friendly discourse, and with renewed strength she sprang once more into the clear and beautiful blue. Then the Child clapped his little hands for joy, that the sweet bird had flown up again, and that the redcaps must hold their tongues for shame. CHAPTER XIV.