From Canarsie marshes to Shinnecock Bay, Long Island, the MEADOWLARKS are evenly distributed. On meadows above the reach of high tide, one or more pairs of the delightful birds usually can be found. Shooting them as they rose thru the early morning mist, was one of the sins of my early youth. The forceful lecture of a Long Islander on whose land I trespassed to destroy a Lark, brot home the wrong of destruction and soon after the gun was shelved for camera and pencil.

Altho "Lark" is a misnomer and their tenuous imitation of the true Larks' aerial concert is far below that performance, the name is firmly intrenched and likely to remain.

The clear, sweet sounds are among the first bird notes which cheer listeners after Winter's dreariness. The majority migrate slowly southward but a few hardy individuals brave the cold weather of lower New England. Often in early March I have seen them atop a fence or bush, the golden breast a point of reflected sunlight, telling me "Spring, Spring-is-h-e-re." In debonair bearing, sweet voices and quiet manners, our Meadowlarks are altogether admirable.