THE OOLOGIST. 151 



To the Bobolink. 



By REV. C. S. PERCIVAL. 



How are you old fellow? You know me, 



Though 'tis many a year since we met, 

 I knew you the moment I heard you; 



That melody who can forget? 

 That rollicking, jubilant whistle, 



That rolls like a brooklet along — 

 That sweet flageolet of the meadows, 



Your bubble-ling, bobolink song! 



In the beautiful vales of Oneida, 



I first heard that sweet roundelay. 

 Which afar on the Iowa prairies, 



I've pined for through many a May. 

 But here are the fields of Ohio: 



And you've come from those valleys halfway, 

 To meet me and greet me still singing 



Your bubble-ing, bobolink lay! 



'Twas kind of you, Bobbie, to do it, 



For here I must linger awhile; 

 And hence to the home of my childhood 



Still stretches full many a mile, 

 And ere I had reached you, the autumn 



Had banished you far to the South; 

 And the snow and the storm-wind had silenced 



That bubble-ing, bobolink mouth. 



Then sing once again the sweet ditty, 



My boyhood delighted to hear; 

 And my laugh, though a tear must spring with it, 

 , Will ring out in spite of the tear. 

 And the long silenced voices of loved ones, 



And the forms on which memory dotes, 

 All shall live in the magical echoes 



Of those bubble-ing, bobolink notes. 



Do you mind, my dear Bobbie, How often 



I tried to poke fun as you sang, 

 And mimicked your musical nasals 



With my hoarse "Okeelang, Okeelang?" 

 But I mind how you commonly taught me 



That the poked is the fellow that pokes: 

 For somehow, you always got round me 



With those bubble-ing, bobolink jokes! 



