THE BOBOLINK 



stake he has alighted on, and when you 

 come nearer he goes but to the next, 

 singing the prelude or finale of his song 

 as he flies. Fewer yards above your 

 head he poises on wing to sing it from 

 beginning to end, you know not whether 

 with intent to taunt you or to charm you, 

 but he only accomplishes the latter. He 

 seems to know that he does not harm 

 us and that he brings nothing that we 

 should not lose by killing him. Yet 

 how cunningly he and his mate hide 

 their nest in the even expanse of grass. 

 That is a treasure he will not trust us 

 with the secret of, and, though there 

 may be a dozen in the meadow, we 

 rarely find one. 



Our New England fathers had as 

 kindly a feeling for this blithe comer to 

 their stumpy meadows, though they gave 

 him the uncouth and malodorous name 

 of skunk blackbird. He sang as sweetly 

 to them as he does to us, and he too was 

 a discoverer and a pioneer, finding and 

 occupying meadows full of sunshine 

 where had only been the continual shade 

 of the forest, where no bobolink had 

 ever been before. Now he has miles of 

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