Saturday May 9, 1936 Meadowlark (Sturnella Neglecta)
During the Easter holidays, in the earlier part of them and on the same day that the previously mentioned horned owl’s nest was discovered, three soaked and miserable bird-watchers were tramping across a wet and sodden field with gloom in their hearts as they looked up at the leaden sky and glistening bluffs which stood gaunt as skeletons with none of the vegetation that clothed them in Summer, when a medium-sized, greyish bird bounded over our heads, perched on a fence post and poured out the sweet liquid warble of the first meadowlark. As he sang the clouds lightened, and as he threw his whole soul into one long note the sun came through the grey sky, dimly at first but with increasing strength. Only those who are privileged to hear the first meadowlark of the year can know how we felt, and we moved on cheerfully and ready for what might come. The meadowlark seems to be symbolic of the prairies and when first he is heard grins appear on the listeners’ faces, “You hear it? Spring’s here at last.
Eastern Replica
In Eastern Canada dwells the exact replica of the Western meadowlark, but oddly without a song of importance. A few whistles comprise his whole scale and an Easterner hearing the Westerner meadowlark for the first time ignores the familiar looking bird on the fence post and looks for the songster. For those who know the starling it is hard to believe that the beautiful and talented meadowlark is of the same family as a real starling.
For one of the commonest prairie birds the number of meadowlark nests found is extremely small, and the reason? First, he builds it in the thickest grass possible, makes it in a hollow so that it is level with the ground, and roods it over so that it is impossible to see it. Even at that the wily bird feels more precautionary measures are needed so it seldom allows itself to be flushed from the nest, but, if frightened, runs a few hundred feet before it flies. When the female decides that it is time to lay the eggs she walks through the entrance tunnel and lays, one a day, four to seven eggs about the size of a robin’s and marked with a great variety of patterns or, perhaps better a great variety of dots and blotches. The eggs are white, sometimes finely speckled with reddish brown. When the young hatch they “raise the roof,” and sometimes the black demon, the crow, spots the gaping mouths and makes a meal, while the chunky little meadowlark goes nearly frantic through her inability to help her young. Another great destroyer of meadowlarks’ nests and also those of other small birds is the grass fire. Burn the grass early and when an unavoidable fire starts, stop it soon, or you will be deprived of many valuable assets in the form of insectbirds.
Somewhere outside my window now, in the gathering shades of dusk, I can hear the liquid whistle of the meadowlark, inoffensive, beneficial and beautiful bird of the prairies. True Western emblem of optimism, of cheer and of hope may you always reign supreme.