During the Spring of 1887 I spent many hours watching and listening to SkYLARKS in the fields of New Lots, Long Island. They were imported birds that made that locality their home until exterminated by the blizzard of 1888.

On slow wings one starts upward, the song attuned to its speed but filled with the joy of life. The wing beats increase, so does the song. He circles and rises faster — the tempo accelerates until the warbling notes trip over each other and mingle in an ecstasy that is beyond description. Up — up the brown minstrel goes until out of vision but still the wild song comes down like "crystal rain." Then he comes into view, dropping in long slants and still singing until a few hundred feet above ground the music ceases suddenly and the bird alights with a swinging swoop almost at my feet.

This describes our "Skylarks" song too for in color and music the birds are alike, and SPRAGUE'S PIPIT is most appropriately named the "American Skylark."