770 
THE BIRDS THAT WE SEE. 
man ; indeed, lie is somewhat out of England say that the boys there trans¬ 
place in an orchard, except at the late the song into “ Bobolink, bobolink, 
migratory season. He is a true for- Tom Denny, Tom Denny, come pay me 
ester, and high on the topmost boughs the sixpence you’ve owed me more than 
Egg of Grakle. 
of the tallest maples and beeches his 
soft whistle is to be heard throughout 
the early summer. His mate, by the 
way, is of dull olive green, without a 
trace of scarlet anywhere, and the young 
ones, at first, are like the mother, but 
the males gradually exchange the green 
for the brilliant scarlet of the race. 
But none of our native birds has made 
for himself a greater name than the 
bobolink [p. 772], the mad harlequin of 
the meadows. Of course the children 
were the first to recognize his genius 
and introduce him to society. But he 
has since graduated from the nursery 
rhyme, and, like the chickadee, is now 
making his way in the literary world. 
If there is one of these birds in our 
meadows we shall not have long to wait 
before both seeing and hearing him. 
A single note of his unj)aralleled 
song, or a single ghmpse of his odd 
black-and-white livery, is sufficient 
to identify him a mile off, after once 
having made his acquaintance. See 
him yonder, skimming over the 
meadow with down-curved, vibratory 
wings, his plumage all jet black, ex 
cept the white marks on his back, 
and the creamy patch on his nape. 
Hark to his bubbling, jingling, in¬ 
expressible music as he ciuwets and 
flutters in the air. Some of the 
older writers on the birds of New 
a year and a half ago. I paid you, 1 
paid you. You didn’t. I did. You 
didn’t, you lie, you cheat, you cheat, 
you cheat ! ” Then, as NuttaU, the man 
of bird-song adds : “ However j)^i6rile 
this odd phrase may appear, it is quite 
amusing to find how near it apj^roaches 
to the time and expression of the notes 
when pronounced in a hurried manner.” 
It is indeed amusing, and, more than 
that, it is the only method of graphic 
description that is available, for musical 
notes and verbal definitions are equally 
powerless to rejoroduce this remarkable 
serenade. 
Another style of descriptive effort has 
been very well attempted by Wilson 
Flagg, whose poem, “ The O’Lincon 
Family,” is full of the strange, jerky, 
bubbling music that characterizes the 
The Grakle or Crow-blackbird. 
