The Oologist. 



VOL. XIV. NO. 5. 



ALBION, N. Y., MAY, 1897. 



Whole No. 132 



The Bobolink in Literary Fields and 

 Fields of Grass and Clover. 



Who that has visited the country 

 when it was full of the blossom and 

 beauty of May and June, is not ac- 

 quainted with the bobolink! and wno 

 having wandered in the pleasant fields 

 of out-door literature has not met with 

 him there also? The poets, who have 

 paid any attention to nature at all, have 

 fallen in love with this little feathered 

 poet of the meadows, and right royally 

 has he favored by their inspiratioi). 

 Doubtless no bird, save the mocking- 

 bird of the South has been equally prais- 

 ed and embalmed in our literature; well 

 might our other birds envy him his pos- 

 ition. 



An article which would contain any 

 portion of the interesting and pretty 

 things which have been written about 

 him, however pleasant it might be to 

 read, would be all to long. Being too 

 far from a large library and with only 

 a few notes made from time to time, I 

 must necessarily miss many of the best 

 quotations although those given will 

 doubtless be sufficient for the present 

 article. 



The bobolink comes to us in this re- 

 gion a few days before the close of April 

 and is at least always here tree he close 

 of May day. In 1893 he came rollick- 

 ing ioto our landscape on April 29tb; 

 in 1894 he appeared at noon May 1st, 

 while April 30th brought him in 1895, 

 and April 24th in 1896 and one day later 

 this spring. 



From the very day of his arrival he 

 is tipsy with song. I think those verses 

 in Emily Dickenson's poem must apply 

 only to him. 



I taste a liquor never brewed 



In vats upon the Rhyne 

 No tankard ever held a draught 



Of alcohol like mine. 



Inebriate of air am I 



And debaucher of dew 

 Reeling through endless summer days 



From courts of molten blue. 



He is a handsome little feathered 

 dandy in black and buff and white, as 

 he waltzes quaintly on the fence to his 

 own ecstatic music. And you recall 

 William Cullen Bryant's poem "Rob- 

 ert of Lincoln," familiar to every school- 

 child. 



Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed. 



Wearing a bright black wedding coat; 

 White are his shoulders, and white his crest, 

 Hear him call in his merry note; 

 Bob-o link, Bob-o-link, 

 Spink, spank, spink. 

 Look what a nice new coat is mine; 

 Sure there was never a bird so fine. 

 Chee, chee, chee. 



This may not be a good interpreta- 

 tion of his song, but a perfect transcript 

 of it has not yet been written. This 

 poet of nature calls him "prince of 

 braggarts." He certainly appears to 

 court observation, being in no wise a 

 shy or retiring bird. What farmer so 

 inobservant as never to have heard or 

 seen this bird sing! For it is worth 

 while to watch his movements for there 

 is music in them too, as he spills his 

 merry strains on the morning air. He 

 is music all over. Nothing can dampen 

 his rapturous and ever bubbling joy in 

 life. He sings alike fitting, on the 

 wing, chasing his plain brown mate or 

 an equally voluble rival, in reckless 

 flight. 1 have many a time caught him 

 singing in the rain, and singing even 

 while he held a writhing worm in his 

 bill which he had captured for the baby 

 birds. He is at his song feast early in 

 the morning, at it all day; and the last 

 thing in the evening ere the shadows 

 aie too long, his tinkling strains came 

 up from distant meadows 



