Its sweet warbling is only the metrical palpitation of its life of joy.

It goes up over the roof-trees of the rural hamlet on the wings of its song, as if to train the rural soul to trial flights heavenward.
Never did the Creator put a voice of such volume into so small a living thing.

It is a marvel--almost a miracle.

In a still hour you can hear it at nearly a mile's distance.

When its form is lost in the hazy lace-work of the sun's rays above, it pours down upon you all the thrilling semitones of its song as distinctly as if it were warbling to you in your window.
The only American bird that could star it with the English lark, and win any admiration at a popular concert by its side, is our favourite comic singer, the Bobolink.