BOBOLINK. 
DOLICHONYX ORYZIVORUS. 
HE mere mention of his name incites merriment. 
Bobolink is the embodiment of frolic song, the 
one inimitable operatic singer of the feathered stage. 
Though the oriole has a stronger and more commanding 
voice, and the thrushes far surpass him in deep, pure and 
soul-stirring tones, he has no rival; even the mocking- 
bird is dumb in his presence. In the midst of his 
rollicking song he falls with bewitching effect into a 
ventriloquous strain, subdued, as if his head were under 
his wing; but soon the first force returns with a swell, 
and he shoots up into the air from the slender twig upon 
which he has been singing and swinging in the wind, 
plying just the tips of his wings to paddle himself along 
in his reckless hilarity, twisting his head this way and 
that, increasing in ecstasy till he and his song drop 
together to the ground. 
During his short but glorious reign bobolink takes the 
open meadow, the broad sunlight all day long. When 
he would sing his best, he invariably opens with a few 
tentative notes, softly and modestly given, as much as to 
say, “Really, I fear I’m not quite in the mood to-day.” 
It is a musical gurgling: — 
