"Oh, it's not me," said the bird, looking very shy. "I am only his wife. It's my husband." And she looked up after him into the sky, whence his song was still falling like a shower of musical hailstones. Perhaps _she_ could see him. "He's a splendid bird," said Buffy-Bob; "only you know he _will_ get up a little too early." "Oh, no! he doesn't. It's only his way, you know. But tell me what I can do for you." "Tell us, please, Lady Lark, where the she-eagle lives that sits on Giant Thunderthump's heart." "Oh! that is a secret." "Did you promise not to tell?" "No; but larks ought to be discreet. They see more than other birds." "But you don't fly up high like your husband, do you?" "Not often. But it's no matter. I come to know things for all that." "Do tell me, and I will sing you a song," said Tricksey-Wee. "Can you sing too?--You have got no wings!" "Yes. And I will sing you a song I learned the other day about a lark and his wife." "Please do," said the lark's wife. "Be quiet, children, and listen." Tricksey-Wee was very glad she happened to know a song which would please the lark's wife, at least, whatever the lark himself might have thought of it, if he had heard it. So she sang,-- "'Good morrow, my lord!' in the sky alone, Sang the lark, as the sun ascended his throne. 'Shine on me, my lord; I only am come, Of all your servants, to welcome you home. I have flown a whole hour, right up, I swear, To catch the first shine of your golden hair!' "'Must I thank you, then,' said the king, 'Sir Lark, For flying so high, and hating the dark? You ask a full cup for half a thirst: Half is love of me, and half love to be first. There's many a bird that makes no haste, But waits till I come. That's as much to my taste. "And the king hid his head in a turban of cloud; And the lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed. But he flew up higher, and thought, 'Anon, The wrath of the king will be over and gone, And his crown, shining out of its cloudy fold, Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold.' "So he flew, with the strength of a lark he flew. But as he rose, the cloud rose too; And not a gleam of the golden hair Came through the depth of the misty air; Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore, The strong sun-seeker could do no more. "His wings had had no chrism of gold, And his feathers felt withered and worn and old; So he quivered and sank, and dropped like a stone. And there on his nest, where he left her, alone, Sat his little wife on her little eggs, Keeping them warm with wings and legs. "Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing! Full in her face was shining the king. 'Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired,' said he. '_Up_ is not always the best way to me. While you have been singing so high and away, I've been shining to your little wife all day.'