THE SKYLARK’S STORY

THE SKYLARK’S STORY

“Once upon a time, a long while ago, I was passing over a field. Pausing for a moment to look at a flower, a Lark fell palpitating at my feet, hot and weary with singing. Taking him up in my left hand, whilst I gently fanned him with my right, I said, ‘Tell me, Lark, what is your story, and why do you sing?’ And when he was cool again, this is the tale he told:—

“ ‘Once I was an egg, and I lay in a tiny nest among the grasses of the field. The shell, within which I lived, was very small and somewhat dark, but warm! Occasionally, however, I could see just a little glimpse of light; and now and then I could indistinctly hear my father talking or singing to my mother. But I couldn’t move, and I couldn’t speak.

“ ‘Then came a day when I thought I heard an awful crash. It was so loud and thunderous that it seemed to me as if the sky had fallen. At the time it happened I was almost asleep, I think, for I appeared to have waked with such a sudden start, that I pushed my beak clean through the shell in which I lived; broke it in half; and there I sat, blinking and winking at the sunlight in the most stupid manner conceivable.

“ ‘In a minute or two I saw my mother! She was looking down at me as proudly as if I were an eagle instead of a wee little lark—almost naked, and so weak, that I couldn’t stand up, no matter how hard I tried. In fact, every time I tried, I fell back so funnily that my mother laughed a little, and that made me cry!

Touch tells a story.

“ ‘When she saw me crying she said: “Never mind, little one! You’ll soon do much more than stand up—you’ll fly! And now just lie down until I go and get you your breakfast!” and off she flew! My word, she *was* quick! I hardly seemed to have lain down before she was back with it—the queerest little pinky-red wriggly thing you ever saw in your life; but so soft and juicy looking that, when she put it on my tongue, I just popped it down my throat and gave a little squeak for more!

“ ‘But that’s a long while ago!

“ ‘As I grew and got some feathers, my mother taught me first to walk a little, then to run, and finally to fly! Very well do I remember my first little flight. I could scarcely have gone a dozen yards, when down I came plop! right on my mother’s back! How she got beneath me, goodness only knows! But it was a good thing for me that she did, for when I saw where I should have fallen; it was right on top of an old spiky post in a fence—and I certainly would have been hurt.

“ ‘One day my father came to me and said: “Up you come with me, little laddie! You’re old enough now to get into the air, and to get your first singing lesson!”

“ ‘I fairly worshipped my father! He really was wonderful, for on all the days when my mother was feeding me or teaching me to fly, we could just see him away up overhead, singing rapturously.

“ ‘And the songs he sang! The notes came raining down like dew-drops, diamonds, rubies, sapphires. They were made of sunshine, jewels, and running water! You never heard the like of them! And my mother, who loved him to distraction, would often stop in her teaching and just gaze up at him as if he were an angel!

“ ‘But, as I was saying, my father came to me for my first skyward lesson. How I loved it! Round and up, and up and round we went, until we appeared to be miles and miles above the earth!

“ ‘And, looking about me, at the sun, the sky, and the good green earth, all at once I knew what everything meant, and almost without knowing it, I opened my throat and sang till I dropped!

“ ‘Very fortunately my father, who probably guessed what would happen, was watching closely, and the very instant that my wings gave way he caught me on his back, and down we came in the most graceful spirals you ever saw! Day after day we did the same thing, until at last, strong of wing, and mellow throated as my father, he gave me the right to soar and sing whenever I pleased!

“ ‘As to why I sing, I can only say that everything in the World seems so good, so lovely and so bright, that I cannot help it. Besides, I love to hear my own voice, it is so sweet. And I rather think that the Angels of Heaven, looking down as I often do at this beautiful earth, must find it not only easy to sing, but must simply long for the time when they can come and teach their songs to human beings,—just as my father taught me his!’ ”

So concluded the story.

Then someone sang a Fairy song, and everybody joined in the chorus.

After that the Prince asked one of the Couriers—one of those who are sent out with important letters—to repeat something he once heard at a concert. And this is what the Courier said:—

“Once upon a time, a long while ago, I stopped to listen to a children’s concert, and there I heard a bright-faced boy recite this tale:—