The Bobolink no 



begins to pay particular attention to some plainly 

 dressed little bobolink maiden, and for the lady of 

 his choice he sings his most hilarious melody. I 

 know of nothing more delightful on a May morning 

 than to be near an old orchard, where the sweet 

 scented blossoms are still hanging, and to watch the 

 bobolink at his wooing. As you approach, the female 

 is not to be seen, but she is, without doubt, down in 

 the grass, while the male, in his beautiful coat of black 

 and creamy white, is sitting upon the tallest bush by 

 the fence; or, perchance, is swinging for a moment 

 from the slender branch of an elm, before rising grace- 

 fully into the air and pouring forth such ringing, 

 vibrating, tinkling, and rollicking notes as '"tshe, 

 'tshe, 'tsh, 'tsh, 'tshe," and then circling right-about 

 and setting sail for his former perch fairly shouting, 

 "bob-o-lee, bob-o-lee, bob-o-hnke." 



After the wooing the happy pair selects a meadow, 

 preferably near a running stream, and in a tussock 

 of grass surrounded by plenty of green verdure a 

 snug nest is constructed of bits of dried grass, col- 

 lected by both male and female. The eggs, number- 

 ing from four to six, are of a grayish white with numer- 

 ous blotches of umber upon them. 



The nest is very difficult to locate — hours upon hours 

 have I spent in trying to find one. In approaching 



