OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 47 
Where are you, Bob, and what have you done, 
That he calls you day by day? 
Perhaps you staid away in the night 
And home now he is calling: 
“Bob-White,’’ ‘‘Bob White.” 
Maybe you're held by a wood nymph’s spell, 
A captive in a dell wild and sylvan, 
And there you are hid from mortal sight, 
While plaintively he’s calling: 
‘‘Bob-White’’ ‘‘Bob White.’’ 
Miss Sweet imitated the bird’s call so well that the 
pupils forgot their usual school room decorum and ap- 
plauded vigorously. She then recited Marion Frank- 
lin Ham’s 
BOB-WHITE. 
Shrill and clear from coppice near, 
A song within the woodland ringing 
A treble note from silver throat, 
The siren of the fields is singing— 
Bob-bob-white! 
And from the height the answer sweet 
Floats faintly o’er the rippling wheat 
Bob-white. 
The elder flowers in snowy showers 
Upon the velvet turf are falling; 
And where they lie the soft winds sigh 
The while the fluted voice is calling— 
Bob-bob-white! 
And far across the yellow grain 
The wafted echo swells again 
, Bob-white. 
