DIFFERENTIAL POINTS: 

 See Table. 



REMARKS : 



Fig. 12, Plate LXVIII, represents three eggs of the Bobolink, of the common shapes, sizes, and 

 patterns of markings. The nest of the Bobolink is very difficult to find, owing to its position, and also 

 to the fact that the female will not flush from her nest, but will run off through the grass when alarmed. 

 It is therefore impossible to locate the nest by the place from which the female is scared up, and also 

 equally impossible to locate it by the place at which she alights when going to her eggs, as she resorts 

 to the same tactics upon her entrance to her home as upon her departure. Diligent search through the 

 grass over the locality suspected to contain the nest is the quickest and surest way of finding it. 



The most remarkable thing about the Bobolink is its song. It has been celebrated in prose and 

 verse until even those persons who have never heard the bird sing must have some familiarity with its 

 notes. But to those individuals who in early June have listened to the sweet music poured forth by 

 the Bobolink, while perched upon some swaying bough or tall blade of grass, or like a Sparrow Hawk 

 balanced in the air, there must ever occur pleasant memories at the mere suggestion of the songster's 

 name. In 1879, the Rev. C. S. Percival, after a long residence in the West, met for the first time in 

 years the Bobolink. The following verse, handed to me a few days after, seems so truthful and so fine 

 in thought that I take the liberty of reproducing it here: 



How are you, old fellow? You know me, 



Though 't is many a year since we met. 

 I knew you the moment I heard you ; 



That melody who can forget ? 

 That rollicking, jubilant whistle, 



That rolls like a brooklet along — 

 That sweet flageolet of the meadows, 



Your bubble-ing, bobolink song! 



In the beautiful vales of Oneida 



I first heard that sweet roundelay, 

 Which, afar on the Iowa prairies, 



I 've pined for through many a May. 

 But here are the fields of Ohio ; 



And you 've come from those valleys half way. 

 To meet me and greet me, still singing 



Your bubble-ing, bobolink lay ! 



'T was kind of you, Bobbie, to do it, 



For here I must linger awhile ; 

 And hence to that home of my childhood 



Still stretches full many a mile. 

 And, ere I had reached you, the autumn 



Had banished you far to the South ; 

 And the snow and the storm-wind had silenced 



That bubble-ing, bobolink mouth ! 



Then sing once again the sweet ditty, 



My boyhood delighted to hear ; 

 And my laugh, though a tear must spring with it, 



Will ring out in spite of the tear. 

 And the long-silent voices of loved ones, 



And the forms on which memory dotes, 

 All shall live in the magical echoes 



Of those bubble-ing, bobolink notes! 



Do you mind, my dear Bobbie, how often 



I tried to poke fun as you sang, 

 And mimicked your musical nasals 



Willi my hoarse "Okelang, okelang ? " 

 But 1 mind how you commonly taught me 



That the poked is the fellow that pokes; 

 For, somehow, you always got round me 



With these bubble-ing, bobolink jokes! 



"Only think" — with your eye cocked upon me — 



"That a chap without voice, ear, or wings, 

 " Should think he can mimic the singing 



"Of a fellow that flies as he sings! 

 "Ok go Hang. Give it up? You can 't come it ! 



" Chee, chee ! — what a figure he makes, 

 " Who apes, with his hiccoughing quavers, 



" My bubble-ing, bobolink shakes ! " 



But Bobbie, how is it? — I 'm puzzled. 



Come to think, it is wonderful strange 

 That you look and sing as you used to, 



While I — have you noticed the change? 

 Yflur plumage still wears the old colors, 



While mine like a badger's has grown, 

 My songs are sung out, while yours echo 



The same bubble-ing, bobolink tone? 



Did your mother, the first time she saw you, 



Dip you, heels and all, into the Styx ; 

 And thus, on her musical wonder, 



A long immortality fix? 

 Or, down in that South, did you drink of 



The fount Ponce sought for in vain — 

 And thence is the fresh juvenescence 



Of your bubble-ing, bobolink strain ? 



I know not, dear Bobbie, and care not ; 



For in fact I 'm as young as yourself, 

 For all of your juvenile antics— 



You jubilant, rollicking elf! 

 The heart that possesses the power 



Beneath your wild music to thrill, 

 Is as young as the heart that produces 



Your bubble-ing, bobolink trill! 



But the heart, Bobbie, never gets older ; 



And that 's the one musical thing — 

 The only thing here or in Iieaven, 



That ever could, can, or will sing ! 

 And that is the reason I 've lingered 



To-day in this meadow so long ; 

 And joined my old base to the treble 



Of your bubble-ing, bobolink song! 



312 



