The Song of Meadow Lark

An unquestionably pathetic, if not mournful, the song rises from our meadows in spring and early summer which may be attributed to the Meadowlark. This bird is one whose slurred whistle conveys an impression quite the opposite of cheerfulness. The strain is a dolorous one and the most optimistic interpreter could never clear it of a certain plaintive quality. That is wholly due to the bird’s habit of slurring his notes. 

It would be impossible to represent these notes by dots—only a series of curves can describe his indecisive attempts at hitting a tone: If you whistle the three curves above—providing there is such a thing as a curving whistle—you will get the Meadowlark’s song. In other words, a tone must be given descending or sliding to the first tone below, then repeated with a slide to the fourth tone below, and then repeated the third time exactly as it was given at first. 

But that is, of course, one song, and we must remember if fifty of the birds sing there will be fifty songs! And in every one of them, the principle of the slur is absolutely maintained. In the summer of 1903, I heard in Nantucket a bird which sang with charming accuracy the following first two bars from Alfredo’s song in La Traviata: But this was sung in the same pathetic way in which Violetta sings it a little later in the same act when she finds she must give up Alfredo. 

There is an unmistakable pathos in the bird’s song. It is not always the case, however, that the music is pathetic. One afternoon, while crossing the downs of Nantucket, I heard a bit which was decidedly reminiscent of the song and dance with castanets in which Carmen attempts, in the opera of her name, to lure Jose away from his duty: This, it must be admitted, was not sung in quite the lively way the libretto would demand, but the melody was correct: 

A moment later, however, another bird spoiled the whole effect by finishing the song the wrong way, thus: Meadowlarks, and birds in general, for that matter, are prone to take unwarranted liberties with operatic scores. A Meadowlark in the vicinity of Boston offered the following bit from Gilbert and Sullivan’s Ruddigore He hailed the bridegroom but drew the line at the bride. Why did he not finish? I am unable to say whether he had a grudge against the bride or simply forgot his part! Of all birds, the Meadowlark is the most provincial. 

He does not migrate very far from his breeding place, or perhaps does not migrate at all. As a consequence, his character is perfectly reflected in his song that, too, is strikingly provincial. The birds of Vermont sang a song so strange to me that at first, I did not recognize it. Again, the birds of Nantucket sang a different song. 

And now, after a disinterested consideration of the whole matter, I have come to consider the song of the birds in New Jersey is one of many forms, each of which is distinguished by some local characteristic. In every case, there is one thing we can rely upon as unchanging, and that is the descending slur.