THE DICKCISSEL. 



You little folks, I'm afraid, 

 who live or visit in the country 

 every summer, will not recognize 

 me when I am introduced to you 

 by the above name. You called 

 me the Little Field Lark, or 

 Little Meadow Lark, while all 

 the time, perched somewhere on 

 a fence-stake, or tall weed- 

 stump, I was telling you as plain 

 as I could what my name 

 really is. 



"See, see," I said, "Dick, Dick 

 Cissel, Cissel" 



To tell you the truth I don't 

 belong to the Lark family at all. 

 Simply because I wear a yellow 

 vest and a black bow at my 

 throat as they do doesn't make 

 me a Lark. You can't judge 

 birds, anymore than people, by 

 their clothes. No, I belong to 

 the Finch, or Bunting family, 

 and they who call me the Slack- 

 throated Bunting are not far from 

 right. 



I am one of the birds that go 

 south in winter. About the 

 first of April I get back from 

 the tropics and really I find 

 some relief in seeing the hedges 

 bare, and the trees just putting 

 on their summer dress. In truth 



I don't care much for buds and 

 blossoms, as I only frequent the 

 trees that border the meadows 

 and cornfields. Clover fields 

 have a great attraction for me, 

 as well as the unbroken prairie. 



I sing most of the time because 

 I am so happy. To be sure it is 

 about the same tune, "See, see, 

 Dick, Dick Cissel, Cissel" but as 

 it is about myself I sing I never 

 grow tired of it. Some people 

 do, however, and wish I would 

 stop some time during the day. 

 Even in the hottest noonday you 

 will see me perched on a fence- 

 stake or a tall weed-stalk singing 

 my little song, while my mate is 

 attending to her nest tucked 

 away somewhere in a clump of 

 weeds, or bush, very near the 

 ground. 



There, I am sorry I told you 

 that. You may be a bad boy, 

 or a young collector, and will 

 search this summer for my nest, 

 and carry it and all the pretty 

 eggs away. Think how sorrow- 

 ful my mate would be, and I, no 

 longer happy, would cease to 

 sing, " See, See, - - Dick, Dick, 

 Cissel, Cissel.' 1 ' 1 



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