68 BIRD PARADISE 



ing a sort of convention — all singing and talking 

 at the same time. I could not make outjnst what 

 they were saying, but I was quite sure they were 

 doing it well. There is nothing slow about the 

 song of the bobolink. It goes with a rush, a great 

 outpouring of notes that are no sooner poured out 

 than they begin to pour again, the stream rip- 

 pling and hurrying all day long. I fancy at 

 times they reach out a hand for a little praise 

 from the human brother. This very morning one 

 came from the field to where I was at work in the 

 garden. He circled about, singing as only the 

 bobolink can sing — the same song over and over, 

 but new every time. He took a high seat — there 

 are no low seats among birds — on the old apple 

 tree, and such a concert as he put in motion is 

 never known anywhere else. A song fellow 

 joined him soon, and for five minutes all the gar- 

 dening that I did was keeping both ears open to 

 a hymn that is America from start to finish. For 

 aught the parson knows these fellows have been 

 trilling their songs for hundreds of years. How 

 much evolution there has been in getting where 

 they are I have no means of knowing. They 

 have certainly got there, and I have a notion 

 there is nothing new to be added to the song. 

 "What preachers of righteousness they are and 



