“My husband is King of the Larks,” she said.
Buffy-Bob took off his cap, and Tricksey-Wee courtesied very low.
“Oh, it’s not me,” said the bird, looking very shy. “I am only his wife. It’s my husband.” And she looked up after him into the sky, whence his song was still falling like a shower of musical hailstones. Perhaps she could see him.
“He’s a splendid bird,” said Buffy-Bob; “only you know he will get up a little too early.”
“Oh, no! he doesn’t. It’s only his way, you know. But tell me what I can do for you.”
“Tell us, please, Lady Lark, where the she-eagle lives that sits on Giant Thunderthump’s heart.”
“Oh! that is a secret.”
“Did you promise not to tell?”
“No; but larks ought to be discreet. They see more than other birds.”
“But you don’t fly up high like your husband, do you?”
“Not often. But it’s no matter. I come to know things for all that.”
“Do tell me, and I will sing you a song,” said Tricksey-Wee.
“Can you sing too?—You have got no wings!”
“Yes. And I will sing you a song I learned the other day about a lark and his wife.”