d tiny body, almost too tiny to contain such a gush of
music.

"Oh, you beautiful, beautiful bird!" cried he; "I should dearly like to
take you in and cuddle you. That is, if I could--if I dared."

But he hesitated. The little brown creature with its loud heavenly voice
almost made him afraid. Nevertheless, it also made him happy; and he
watched and listened--so absorbed that he forgot all regret and pain,
forgot everything in the world except the little lark.

It soared and soared, and he was just wondering if it would soar out
of sight, and what in the world he should do when it was gone, when it
suddenly closed its wings, as larks do when they mean to drop to the
ground. But, instead of dropping to the ground, it dropped right into
the little boy's breast.

What felicity! If it would only stay! A tiny, soft thing to fondle and
kiss, to sing to him all day long, and be his playfellow and companion,
tame and tender, while to the rest of the world it was a wild bird of
the air. What a pride, what a delight! To have something that nobody
else had--something all his own. As the traveling-cloak traveled on,
he little heeded where, and the lark still stayed, nestled down in his
bosom, hopped from his hand to his shoulder, and kissed him with its
dainty beak, as if it loved him, Prince Dolor forgot all his grief, and
was entirely happy.

But when he got in sight of Hopeless Tower a painful thought struck him.

"My pretty bird, what am I to do with you? If I take you into my room
and shut you up there, you, a wild skylark of the air, what will become
of you? I am used to this, but you are not. You will be so miserable;
and suppose my nurse should find you--she who can't bear the sound of
singing? Besides, I remember her once telling me that the nicest thing
she ever ate in her life was lark pie!"

The little boy shivered all over at the thought. And, though the merry
lark immediately broke into the loudest carol, as if saying derisively
that he defied anybody to eat him, still, Prince Dolor was very uneasy.
In another minute he had made up his mind.

"No, my bird, nothing so dreadful shall happen to you if I can help it;
I would rather do without you altogether. Yes, I'll try. Fly away, my
darling, my beautiful! Good-by, my merry, merry bird."

Opening his two caressing hands, in which, as if for protection, he had
folded it, he let the lark go. It lingered a minute, perching on the rim
of the cloak, and looking at