see my own beak.”
“Nonsense!” said the lark’s wife. “You know you came home yesterday morning quite worn out—you had to fly so very high before you saw him. I am sure he would not mind if you took it a little easier. Do be quiet and go to sleep again.”
“That’s not it at all,” said the lark. “He doesn’t want me. I want him. Let me up, I say.”
He began to sing; and Tricksey-Wee and Buffy-Bob, having now learned the way, answered him:—
“I will sing a song. I’m the Lark.” “Sing, sing, Throat-strong, Little Kill-the-dark. What will you sing about, Now the night is out?”
“I can only call; I can’t think. Let me up—that’s all. Let me drink! Thirsting all the long night For a drink of light.”