THE MEADOW LARK

[The Welland-Port Colborne Evening Tribune, 10 November 1931]

It seems to me that I can get nearer to a bird that walks, with a deliberate, well-defined step, than the one that hops, or runs so fast that its legs become a blur. The walker impresses one as having a certain poise, or personally the other’s lack. So, it may be that this bird’s peculiar gait is one of its many characteristics that appeal to me.

The books always speak of it as the Meadow Lark, but it as just as often seen on high, wind-swept uplands, and I do not recall ever having come upon one in a real meadow. In some sections he is known as the old field-lark. Strictly speaking, he is really not a lark at all, but is a close cousin of the blackbirds and orioles. They seem especially fond of the company of the blackbirds and often are seen associating with them in the most cousinly manner.

The strong legs of the lark and the disposition of the claws are particularly adapted for a life mostly spent on the ground. The seldom use their wings unless disturbed, or some danger threatens; but when they do take wing there is nothing half-hearted, or undecided about the movement, as they throw themselves in the air with a suddenness that is startling, and with a whirr of wings not unlike the noise made by a covey of frightened quail.

Their favorite feeding grounds are old uncultivated fields, grown up in bramble briars and broom straw. You may search ever so carefully, but you will fail to glimpse a feather, so perfectly do they blend with their surroundings. They know they are safer among the dead grass and weeds than anywhere else and are loath to leave it. They will remain squatting flat on the ground until almost stepped on.

Mother Nature knew her business when she set out to paint the bird so that it would become practically invisible when on its natural feeding ground. The chestnut brown, the ashen gray, with touches of black and white here and there, mix and mingle so perfectly with the winter colors of the stubble that it is hard to determine where stubble ends and bird begins.

But it is only when you are viewing the bird from behind, or above that it fades out of sight. It is very much in evidence from the front, as the throat, breast and chin are a brilliant lemon yellow, made even more conspicuous by a black crescent extending clear across the chest- the shining black and the brilliant yellow making a combination so striking that once seen, is never forgotten.

When feeding the bird has a habit of nervously opening and closing the tail feathers, fan fashion. When flying, white tail feathers become very conspicuous, and they are a sure way of distinguishing the lark. As tame as the bird appears when at home among the broom-sedge, once it leaves the ground and takes refuge among the tree tops, it becomes suspicious and wary, and is almost as difficult to approach as a crow.

When suddenly flushed, they call out “pe-ent-pe-ent” all the while nervously flitting, that short, but expressive tail, as they once more “show the white feather.” Their clear, strong whistle, to some ears, seems to spell “Spring o’ the y-e-a-r, Spring o’ the y-e-a-r.”

True to their instincts, they do not leave the ground even when nest-building comes around-they found it a fine place-an easy place to find food and a safe refuge from enemies, so they decided it could be a good place to raise the children. The nests are placed flat on the ground, but a lark’s nest is one of the hardest things in the world to find. If you have ever dropped a pin in the grass and then got down and tried to find it-you may have some idea what looking for the nest of the lark is.

The make-shift that the mother lark persuades herself is a first-rate cradle for the eggs and the babies, is little more than a handful of dried grass roughly squeezed in a shapeless wad and hidden in a bunch of tall timothy. What havoc is wrought among the eggs and fledglings by field mice and snakes, can only be conjectured.