Bobolink. 25 



of Ma}'. It invariably places its nest on the ground, most 

 frequently in a natural depression in the meadow soil, in 

 a spot surrounded by tall grass, or else out in the open 

 areas, where there is nothing to indicate the presence of a 

 birdland home. Lowell's poetical mention of "tussocks 

 that house blithe Bob O'Lincoln *' loses much of its force 

 to one who scarcely ever finds the nest ensconced in a 

 grass tuft. It loves to nest in the clover, especially if 

 there are numerous weed-stalks on which the devoted male 

 can swing while he pours forth his gushing jingle to cheer 

 the dull life of his mate, brooding over her charge hidden 

 in the herbage. There are few birds that secrete their 

 homes as successfully as the bobolink, or that employ 

 more artifice in approaching and leaving the spot. The 

 actions of the female afford no real clue to the immediate 

 site of the nest. She has a habit of running in the grass 

 for a distance when she leaves her home, and in returning 

 to it she alights some distance from it, and approaches it 

 stealthily in the grass. When startled from the nest, she 

 flutters upward for a moment, and then, dropping back 

 into the grass, she runs swiftly from the spot, and arises 

 in flight at a point safely removed from the premises. 



In an article entitled "Dragging for Bobolinks," pub- 

 lished in the Oologist fur August, 1895, the author, Eev. 

 B. P. Peabody, thus interestingly relates his experience in 

 finding the nests of this species: "One end of the rope is 

 tightly fastened to a slender bunch of grass (whence a 

 stout pull may dislodge it). 1 set about uncoiling it. A 

 brown bird fluttered up before me, and at my feet, em- 

 bowered in a slight grass nest that crests a bog, nestles a 

 newly fledged song sparrow, while beside it lies the sempi- 

 ternal cowbird's egg. How eagerly I beat the first circle, 

 drinking in great draughts of morning air ! But as I close 

 the circle, loose my line, tie again, and circle again and 

 yet again, my ardor begins to dampen, though many a male 

 bobolink floats and flutters near, laughing at me. But the 

 line of circles has begun to reach out well into the meadow. 

 No birds rise, but new beauties lie at my feet. . . . 

 Though not a botanist, observe the flowers I must; for any 

 careless step, taken while the eye eagerly follows the line, 

 fiends one leg plunging down into unmeasured depths of 



