other note. And he kept it up for two or three months, until everybody 

 understood that he had given himself a proper name. And each year he re- 

 turns to remind the skunk and blackbird that he is no other than himself, and 

 to assure people that he is deserving of an original name, whatever else may 

 be said of him. 



The bobolink has a hard time! But still he named himself out of the 

 glee of his heart, and he sings a fourth part of the year as only a bobolink 

 can sing. 



You can make almost anything you please of the song. Children sit on 

 the fence-rails and mimic him, and "guess" what he says, and cry, "Spink, 

 spank, Spink," "meadow wink, meadow wink," "just think, just think," "don't 

 you wink, don't you wink," "want a drink, want a drink?" Coming back to 

 his real name, "bobolink, bobolink," as if, after all, that were the nearest 

 right. 



Shy, suspecting little birds, sharp of eye, fresh from a winter tour in 

 the West Indies, they come exactly when they are expected. Bobolink 

 makes no April fool of himself or anybody else, unless it be Master Skunk 

 in his hollow tree, who rubs his eyes at the first word from Robert o'Lincoln. 

 But the male birds have come in advance of their women folk, and roost high 

 and dry out of reach of four-footed marauders. It is as if the mother bobo- 

 links would be quite sure the spring storms are over before they put them- 

 selves in the way of housework. 



The bobolinks nest would seldom be found if the foolish birds would 

 keep a close mouth about the matter. It does seem as if they would learn 

 after a while, but they don't. As soon as a stranger with two legs or four 

 comes within sight of the spot, the birds set up what they intend for a warn- 

 ing cry, but which is in reality an "information call." Under its spell one 

 can walk straight to the nest, which even yet, on account of its color and 

 surroundings, may be taken for an innocent bunch of grass, provided one has 

 as good eyes as the skunk has nose. 



Now, taking all things into account, the bobolinks are the most sensible 

 of people. Persons who ought to know better by experience and observation 

 hurry on a journey, take no time to enjoy the scenery and the people that live 

 along the route. At the journey's end they are depleted, tired, worn to skin 

 and bone, and out of sorts with travel. Not so the bobolinks! They have 

 no bones at the journey's end. They have fattened themselves into butter. 

 They have put on flesh as the bare spring trees put on leaves, and the but- 

 ternut takes in oil. All the way they eat and drink, and make as merry as 

 they can with so much fat on them. 



The yesterday's bird of mad music is to-day the bird of mad appetite. 

 True, they may call out "chink" in passing, but "chink" means "chock-full," 

 and people who delight in bobolink tal)lc-farc recognize the true meaning of 

 the note. 



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