THE WILD CRAB BLOSSOMING — 85 
came on stirring up the ecstasy in the throat of 
this lyrist, half maudlin with his own melody. 
“O bobolink, bobolink-link-link-bobolink, spring 
and spring and spring, O bobolink, bobolink,” 
quavered on in flight which was as drunken as 
his voice but drunk with the wild delight of 
June and life. The wind blew free. The sky 
arched blue and very far. The world, the whole 
world seemed built for this bird minstrel, this 
wandering poet of the sky. Bobolink, thou art 
this day’s musician. It needs nor will receive 
any other. Thou art sufficient. 
And I discover the forage and set out again 
off again aimlessly. Blessed be the aimless ways 
when it is June. The going anywhere which 
leads to nowhere, or, what is more truthful, 
leads to everywhere. I had no direction. Can- 
not an emperor go where he will and as he 
will? I will follow or flee from the wind. I will 
meander with the stream or lie down beside it. I 
will putter along a prairie shining with flowers. 
I will run the bobolink down. I will sweat in 
the sun. I will saunter in the shadow. I will 
sprawl full length in the fragrant grass. I will 
follow the listless behests of my vagabond desire 
till the birds fall asleep to-night. If any, pass- 
ing by, ask, “Where are you going?” the reply 
shall be “Somewhere,” or else “Nowhere.” Either 
will be truthful; neither will be so explicit as that 
he could run me down by my directions. Out 
with God somewhere—what a jocund destina- 
