there was such a precious guy at the ball last night, and I had no end of a lark with him.

"I say," remarked the latter, in rather a knowing manner, "if you want to see a lark, come to the reading-room before 'prep.'

Well, I'm going to find it out, and read this note, just for the lark.

Every one recognized the ambulance and knew at once that Major Brown and I were out on a "lark," and therefore there was not much said about our exploit.

Why, with the dinner all prepared like this it would be just a lark to put it on the tablefor just her and Chet alone.

"Who cares about being comfortable on a lark like that?" cried Laura airily.

"Well, they thought as they'd play burglar an' break into the place an' make a regular lark of it.

The ride to the house was one big lark.

What put it in his head I am not sure, but I think it was two things togetherseeing a soaring lark radiant with the light of the unrisen sun, and finding in a corner of Spelman's shop a large gilt ball which had belonged to an old eight-day clock he had bought.

The glory which, striking on the heart of the lark, was there transmuted into song, came back from the ball, after its kind, in glow and gleam.

She could not only sing like a lark, and dance divinely, and embroider beautifully, and spell as well as a "Dixonary" itself, but she had such a kindly, smiling, tender, gentle, generous heart of her own as won the love of everybody who came near her, from Miss Minerva herself down to the poor girl in the scullery and the one-eyed tart woman's daughter, who was permitted to vend her wares once a week to the young ladies in the Mall.

"You see, we're going to have a rare lark this afternoon," continued Stubby, confidentially.

The unwelcome day-break seemed to come too soon, and when Juliet heard the morning-song of the lark, she would have persuaded herself that it was the nightingale, which sings by night; but it was too truly the lark which sung, and a discordant and unpleasing note it seemed to her; and the streaks of day in the east too certainly pointed out that it was time for these lovers to part.

The lark flew up beneath our feet, To his copse the pheasant whirr'd; The cattle from their darkling lairs Heaved up and stretch'd themselves; Almost they trod at unawares Upon the busy elves That dropp'd their spools of gossamer, To dangle and to dry, And scurried home to the hollow fir Where the white owl winks an eye.

It is not the lark's clear tone

Oh, the days are growing longer; Over whispering streams will rushes lean, To answer the waves' soft murmurous call; The lily will bend from its watch-tower green, To list to the lark's low madrigal, And the days are growing longer.

The lark soars upward, singing as she flies, Oh, wave of free, swift wings, oh, happy world!

Shall I in thymy pastures cool and sweet See the lark soaring through the rosy air?

Thus shall thy young fair frame no longer be A prison, but a meetest dwelling-place, Full of all infinite delights, and dear As is its nest to the heaven-soaring lark, That yearns down, singing, to it from the sky.

She is the lark, above my listening soul Hovering still with carols from Heaven's gate.

The land looms far through the waters blue, The Land of Promise, the Land of Rest; Through cloud and storm they have travell'd true, And joy thrills now in each throbbing breast Down they sink, with a wheeling flight, Whilst the song of birds comes floating high, And they pass the lark in the sunny sky;

and usually written 'Staves-acre') a kind of lark-spur considered efficacious in destroying lice.

We read, both in prose and verse, the praises of the European Lark, Linnet, and Nightingale, and the English Robin Redbreast has been immortalized in song.

Let them say of him, in the cant of modern criticism, that his performances cannot be great, because they are faultless; it is enough for me, that his mellow notes, heard at the earliest flush of morning, in the more busy hour of noon, or the quiet lull of evening, come upon the ear in a stream of unqualified melody, as if he had learned to sing under the direct instruction of that beautiful Dryad who taught the Lark and the Nightingale.

Then a meadow-lark, disturbed, flew up with his piercing "sweet!" the stooping figure turned and he saw, in the clear sunlight, the face under the shady hat Had something in his brain snapped?