152 THE OOLOGIST. 



"Bobolink! Only think" — this you warbled — 



"That a chap without voice, ear or wings, 

 Should venture to mimic the singing 



Of a fellow that flies as he sings! 

 O, go 'long. Give it up? You can't come it! 



Chee, Chee! — what a figure he makes, 

 Who apes with his hiccoughing quavers 



My bubble-ing, bobolink shakes!" 



But, Bobbie, how is it? — I'm puzzled. 



Come to think, it is wonderful strange, 

 That you look and sing as you used to. 



While I — have you noticed the change? 

 Your plumage still wears the old colors, 



While mine like a badger's has grown. 

 My songs are sung out, while yours echo 



The same bubble-ing, bobolink tone! 



Did your mother, the first time she saw you, 



Dip you, heels and all, into the Styx; 

 And thus on her musical wonder, 



A long immortality fix ? 

 Or down in the South, did you drink of 



The fount Ponce sought for in vain — 

 And thence is the fresh juvenescense 



Of your bubble-ing, bobolink strain? 



I know not, dear Bobbie, and care not; 



For in fact I'm as young as yourself, 

 For all of your juvenile antics — 



You jubilant, rollicking elf! 

 The heart that possesses the power 



Beneath your wild music to thrill! 

 Is as young as the heart that produces 



Your bubble-ing, bobolink trill! 



But the heart, Bobbie, never gets older; 



And that's the one musical thing — 

 The only thing here or in heaven, 



That ever could, can or will sing! 

 And that is the reason I've lingered 



Today in this meadow so long; 

 And joined my old bass in the treble 



Of your bubbe-ling, bobolink song! 



[Reprinted from "Odds and Ends" by permission.] 



