The turf blazed brightly on the hearth, and within was sunlight, the sparkling light from the sunny eyes of a child; the birdlike tones from the rosy lips ringing like the song of a lark in spring.
The cuckoo sang, and the lark carolled, for it was now beautiful spring.
He felt the warm sun shining, and heard the lark singing, and saw that all around was beautiful spring.
However the youngest daughter wanted a singing lark.
The lark rose up carolling from the field, twittering her morning lay over the coffin, and presently perched upon it, picking with her beak at the straw covering, as though she would tear it up.
It did not mind that nobody saw it in the grass, and that it was a poor despised flower; on the contrary, it was quite happy, and turned towards the sun, looking upward and listening to the song of the lark high up in the air.
Yes, if I could change myself into anything I would be a little lark.
