THE BOBOLINK. 
38 
Boblink was the envy of my boyhood. He crossed 
my path in the sweetest weather and the sweetest 
season of the year, when all Nature called to the 
fields, and the rural feeling throbbed in every bosom, 
but when I, luckless urchin ! was doomed to be mewed 
up during the livelong day in that purgatory of boy- 
hood, a school-room. It seemed as if the little varlet 
mocked at me as he flew by in full song, and sought 
to taunt me with his happier lot. Oh, how I envied 
him ! No lessons, no task, no hateful school ; nothing 
but holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather. Had 
1 been then more versed in poetry, I might have ad- 
dressed him in the words of Logan to the Cuckoo : 
1 Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, 
Thy sky is ever clear; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy note, 
No winter in thy year. 
4 *Oh ! could I fly, I’d fly with thee, 
We’d make, oil joyful wing, 
Our annual visit round the globe, 
Companions of the spring.’ 
u Further observation and experience have given me 
a different idea of this little feathered voluptuary, 
which I will venture to impart for the benefit of my 
school-boy readers, who may regard him with the 
same unqualified envy and admiration which I once 
indulged. I have shown him only as I saw him at 
first, in what I may call the poetic part of his career, 
when he in a manner devoted himself to elegant pur- 
suits and enjoyments, and was a bird of music, and 
c 
