Conspicuously Black and White 
Perhaps none of our birds have so fitted into song and story 
as the bobolink. Unlike a good child, who should ‘‘be seen 
and not heard,” he is heard more frequently than seen. Very 
shy, of peering eyes, he keeps well out of sight in the meadow 
grass before entrancing our listening ears. The bobolink never 
soars like the lark, as the poets would have us believe, but gen- 
erally sings on the wing, flying with a peculiar self-conscious 
flight horizontally thirty or forty feet above the meadow grass. 
He also sings perched upon the fence or tuft of grass. He is one 
of the greatest poseurs among the birds. 
In spring and early summer the bobolinks respond to every 
poet’s effort to imitate their notes. ‘‘ Dignified ‘Robert of Lin- 
coln’ is telling his name,” says one; ‘‘ Spink, spank, spink,” an- 
other hears him say. But best of all are Wilson Flagg’s lines: 
. ‘Now they rise and now they fly ; 
They cross wand turn, and in and out, and down the middle and wheel about, 
With a ‘ Phew, shew, Wadolincon ; listen to me Bobolincon !’” 
After midsummer the cares of the family have so worn upon 
the jollity of our dashing, rollicking friend that his song is seldom 
heard. The colors of his coat fade into a dull yellowish brown 
like that of his faithful mate, who has borne the greater burden 
of the season, for he has two complete moults each year. 
The bobolinks build their nest on the ground in high grass. 
The eggs are of a bluish white. Their food is largely insectivo- 
rous: grasshoppers, crickets, beetles, spiders, with seeds of grass 
especially for variety. 
In August they begin their journey southward, flying mainly 
by night. Arriving in the Southern States, they become the sad- 
colored, low-voiced rice or reed bird, feeding on the rice fields, 
where they descend to the ignominious fate of being dressed for 
the plate of the epicure. 
Could there be a more tragic ending to the glorious note of 
the gay songster of the north? 
