irge. He then
buried his beak in rather sulky fashion
under his wing, and went to sleep.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

But what is this? It is a
change of scene. Away up in
the morning sky, oh, how blue
it is! and the light fleecy clouds, how they
float in folds of white ether! The Sun
has climbed higher. It is now above
the tallest of the poplars; and the long
shadows cast by trunks and stems and
branches are visibly shortened. And
see! the cattle are again lowing in the
fat meadows, and by degrees beating
a safe retreat from the coming heat
under the forest trees.

High in that bright dome of azure,
there is a delightful frolicsome twitter
heard. It is not the Nightingale; no,
not so clear and mellow as that. Not
the Thrush; no, not so loud or gushing
as that. It is our little friend the
Lark. Oh! how merry he is! more so
than either of the other two. And
what is he about? He seems to be
floating and soaring, sauntering and
curtseying, skimming and dipping, rollicking
and frolicking--now up, now
down--now describing gyrations, now
imitating a pendulum--now trying to be
so steady with his fluttering wings, that
he looks like a star twinkling in the day-time--in
short, playing all sorts of droll
antics, indulging in every imaginable
pirouette and somersault, in all the
world (in his case _above_ the world) like a
school-boy beginning his holidays; certainly
appearing to put himself to a great
deal of unnecessary trouble and exertion.
But he is unmistakably, with his
winning ways, about _something_, and
something to the purpose. But what
that is, no mortal could guess. As the
thing however must be guessed, or
otherwise found out, Gentle Reader,
I shall take you into confidence, and
unriddle the secret.

The Queen of the Morning, as you
already know, or at all events know
now, had come with all her court, and
troupe of gay courtiers. The Young
Hours had unbarred for her the Gates
of Day, and she at once sallied forth.
Beautiful little pages in the shape of
pink clouds, quite like tiny angels
with wings, were holding up her train.
Some of those fairy cherubs seemed, too,
to have censers in their hands, at least
if one could judge from the delicate
wreaths of mist which rose like incense
from them. Others appeared to be
discharging tiny golden arrows from
silver bows; others to paint, with
invisible pencils, in delicate and varying
hues of amber and purple, the fringes
of cl