The clear notes of a meadow lark floated across the green pasture. Oh those dear little birds! Exclaimed Rosie. What would spring be without them? Pretty dull, replied Henry Ise. I would almost rather see spring come without flowers. Are there any out there on your claim-any meadow larks? asked Rosie, as she looked back at the little log house now partly hidden by the hill they were descending. Lots of them-more than here! replied Henry with enthusiasm. And they sing better than these meadow larks here in Eastern Kansas-quite a long song, twice as long as those larks sing; a song that winds up with kind of a trill. Henry pursed his lips and tried to whistle an imitation of the song of the western meadow larks, but with indifferent success. Youll like the meadow larks out there, he added, as he gave the horses a vigorous slap with the lines. Sod and Stubble by John Ise.
Posted on: Mon, 24 Mar 2014 20:13:04 +0000