My Boyhood and Touth 



One of the gayest of the singers is the red- 

 wing blackbird. In the spring, when his scarlet 

 epaulets shine brightest, and his little modest 

 gray wife is sitting on the nest, built on rushes 

 in a swamp, he sits on a nearby oak and de- 

 votedly sings almost all day. His rich simple 

 strain is baumfalee, baumpalee, or bohalee as 

 interpreted by some. In summer, after nesting 

 cares are over, they assemble in flocks of hun- 

 dreds and thousands to feast on Indian com 

 when it is in the milk. Scattering over a field, 

 each selects an ear, strips the husk down far 

 enough to lay bare an inch or two of the end 

 of it, enjoys an exhilarating feast, and after all 

 are full they rise simultaneously with a quick 

 birr of wings like an old-fashioned church con- 

 gregation fluttering to their feet when the min- 

 ister after giving out the hymn says, "Let the 

 congregation arise and sing." Alighting on 

 nearby trees, they sing with a hearty vengeance, 

 bursting out without any puttering prelude in 

 gloriously glad concert, hundreds or thousands 

 of exulting voices with sweet gurgling baumpa- 

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