THE BOBOLINK. oon 
yond gunshot from you in the South will perch on your 
garden fence in New England as familiarly as if he were 
‘‘to the manor born,” and regale you with a flood of his 
choicest melodies. 
Almost everybody in the North knows the song of this 
bird, and has laughed, in spite of him or herself, at the gro- 
tesque singer, as, perched on a twig in the cherry-tree by 
the house, or in the elm by the roadside, or alder by the 
brook, he nodded his head, quivered his wings, opened his 
mouth, and rattled out the most curious, incomprehensible, 
jingling, roundabout, careless, joyous, laughable medley 
that any bird throat ever uttered. 
As soon as the females arrive, they become the especial 
objects of attention with their male neighbors ; and the little 
contentions, both in music, and something more severe, we 
must confess, for the possession of a favored one, between 
the contesting suitors, are almost innumerable. 
When the birds are mated, usually early in June, they 
commence the structure in which their family is to be 
reared. Selecting a thick tussock of grass in a field or 
meadow, through which, or near which, a brook prattles of 
cool and delicious draughts, and sweet and refreshing baths, 
beneath the bending and concealing leaves, they entwine 
fine grasses and rootlets into a loose and not deeply 
hollowed nest, which they line with softer pieces of the 
same material. 
The position is so well chosen that, nine times out of ten, 
if you walk the meadow over again and again, knowing it 
to be there, you will not discover the nest; the male bird 
flies over your head, chiding and complaining at your pres- 
ence, and his mate skurrying off through the thick grass, 
rises away from the nest, that you may not discover its 
locality. 
The eggs, four or five in number, vary in color from a 
light ashy-blue, with spots of blackish-brown, to a pale- 
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