As we strolled along through these flower gardens of the fields we enjoyed still another treat, for everywhere in Belgium the skylarks abound in myriads. To one who has never heard them there are few enjoyments more exquisite than to watch and listen as these tiny minstrels of the sky go through their little performance. Suddenly, almost before the eye can locate it, one shoots upward from the waving wheat in front of us, his rich trills fairly making the air vibrate with melody. Higher and yet higher he goes, his little wings struggling wildly, as if the effort of flying and singing at the same time was too much for him. Never, for an instant, however, does the music stop, and as his tiny form rises farther and farther into the air he gradually begins to drive forward in a wide curve--but still rising and still fluttering madly--until he becomes a mere speck against the sky. Then, all at once, the fluttering wings spread outward and are still, and he begins to volplane slowly downward in a long slow sweep, while his notes become if possible more shrill and vibrating than ever. Then, like a flash, as he nears the ground, he darts sharply out of sight and the song is over. All day long the pleasant, flower-bedecked fields ring with this music--at times a dozen are singing in the air at once. When the sun is high the birds often rise until completely out of sight, only their falling music telling the listener that they are still there. Toward evening the flights are shorter, but as the calm of approaching night settles over the broad and peaceful fields it seems as if the songs are sweeter than at any other time. Two of the greatest English poets have given us wonderful word pictures of this marvellous little bird, which surely sings as sweetly in Belgium as in England. Shelley in his famous Ode, describes the song itself; his metre imitating the breathless rush of the aerial notes: "Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. "Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The deep blue thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest." In Wordsworth's noble lines the thought is less upon the song, but dwells upon the mother bird and her hidden nest: "Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still!" CHAPTER IX GHENT IN THE DAYS OF THE FLEMISH COUNTS