although I had no intention of being an 

 "eavesdropper." The maid proposed 

 that they should sit there, ynder the 

 shade of the great tree, where the view 

 was so lovely, and commence their book. 

 Before they began to read she said — so 

 sweetly I thought — ''What has become of 

 all the Bobolinks ? I used to come in the 

 spring, out into this meadow, every day, 

 to hear them sing, and now there is not 

 a note to be heard or a bird to be seen, 

 and the summer is not half over. I 

 miss them so much ; surely they must 

 cheer up a great many sad ones, their 

 laughter is so infectious. You know 

 Lowell says their song 'runs down a 

 brook of laughter through the air.' " 



Every feather on my body was erect 

 with pride, and had not my voice been 

 out of tune^ I should have thanked her 

 for so pretty a compliment. They began 

 to read, and then it was that I "laughed 

 in my sleeve" at their ignorance. It 

 was a story of something that had hap- 

 pened in Virginia long years ago. Now 

 I know Virginia, because I pass through 

 it every year, and so I listened, and heard 

 an account of that, which to us is an 

 "old, old story," and happens every year 

 in staid old New England, in the Bobo- 

 link world, and so is not at all remark- 

 able to me. It told of many men, ar- 

 rayed in their finest garments, waiting 

 impatiently for the dropping of the anchor 

 of a great ship, which was coming slowly 

 in with its cargo of human freight, bring- 

 ing to each man his life's mate. The 

 maids had come from over seas, each to 

 find her husband, and having made their 

 choice, there was the minister waiting to 

 marry them, when they could go away 

 together into the wilderness, and build 

 their home. 



That "remarkable" thing is exactly what 

 w€ are going to do now, for the whole 

 three hundred of us are on our w^ay to 

 our weddings, having each one donned 

 his nuptial array. Several of us will go 

 to that same big elm tree, and there we 

 will watch impatiently for the coming of 

 the maids. One of us will sit on the tip- 

 j top twig which is our watch tower, and 

 when he descries the brown cloud in 

 the distance, he warns us all that they 

 are coming, coming at last after all our 

 waiting, and we can fly out with a joy- 



ful song to welcome them. Then comes 

 the selection of our mates, and we go to 

 the parson, waiting in the great elm tree, 

 to have the knot tied, when we promise 

 "to have and to hold," for all one sum- 

 mer through. A summer, let me tell 

 you, means for us what the greater part 

 of A life-time would for one of those 

 human giants down there. Now we are 

 free to go away into the wilderness of 

 beautiful, high, green grass, in the mea- 

 dow and build our home. But I have 

 written too much in my diary today, and 

 must now put it away that I may go 

 and forage for my supper. 



May 14. — A long time since I wrote 

 last. 'We arrived here last night in the 

 old elm tree, away up among the hills 

 of New Hampshire, after having traveled 

 as fast as our wings could carry us, for 

 we were impatient to reach our journey's 

 end. Everything looks very familiar to 

 me, and there comes that Vv^oman, whom 

 I used to see every day last spring. She 

 is very harmless. She only wants to look 

 at us' and listen to our song, and does 

 not mean to do us injury in any way._ I 

 heard the veeries, last summer, telling 

 the warblers that they knew her quite 

 well, and indeed had hopped all around 

 her as she sat under a tree on the ground. 

 It was hard to tell her from an old black 

 stump as she never even moved an eye- 

 lid. She seems to have a great deal of 

 curiosity about us, but I am sure is quite 

 innocent. This morning, when we saw 

 her over in the park, we sang a little 

 just to let her know that we had arrived. 

 At the first note she turned and put up 

 that queer glass through which she always 

 looks at us and then crossed the road 

 and the meadow and came directly to 

 our tree, under which she has seated 

 herself. She has laid aside her glass, 

 and, we know by that, she is waiting to 

 hear us sing, soothe boys are calling me 

 to come and give her a welcome, and 

 this writing must be laid one side for 

 "a more convenient season." How soon 

 that will come I do not know, for my 

 days will be busy ones indeed, how busy 

 only those who build their own houses, 

 and take the entire care of their families 

 can tell, so, for the present, my Journal, 

 good-bye. 



Cornelia B. Long. 



121 



