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Updated: May 29, 2025
Here an emerald streak and there a soft blue shadow, yonder a matchless olive green, and still farther a cool gray: spreading like an enamel over the hillside where the cattle have cropped them, and waving tall and fine above the crimsoning blossoms of the clover; glittering with countless gems in the morning dews and musicful with the happy songs and call notes of the quail and prairie chicken, the meadow lark, the bob-o-link, and the dickcissel whose young are safe among the protection of the myriad stems.
"Did he really say that?" cried Daisy, watching the bob-o-link, who sat swaying up and down on the green bough, and nodding his white-capped head at her in the most friendly manner. "Perhaps I didn't translate it rightly; for it is very hard to put bird-notes into our language, because we haven't words soft and sweet enough.
Out over the meadow, merry Mister Bob-o-link was singing his "Spingle! Spangle! Song" and his voice sounded so much like the brook that Robert Robin was just beginning to feel like singing a little song, himself, when Mister Gabriel Chipmunk screamed "Chip!" and plunged under the stump. Gabriel Chipmunk lived under the stump, and he went in the front door of his house.
Crow has had the blues all day, Billy Rabbit has been very lonely, and even Melancthon Coon was asking what had become of you; he had missed your singing. I came over here just on purpose to listen to little Mister Bob-o-link sing his Spingle, Spangle song. So you see, Mister Robin, we all need you to cheer us up with your songs and keep us good-natured!"
He had pushed Afternoon Tea Willie quite out of sight and followed the captain to where the new teacher stood alone. He took her hand and shook it vigorously, his kind blue eyes beaming a welcome. "I'm sure we are glad you've come!" he declared again, still more heartily, for he saw the homesickness in the big eyes. "You'll be as happy here as a bob-o-link in a field of clover.
Sometimes there is the tinkling sound of the bob-o-link, also flying in the night time, and in the morning there may be a flock of them in some meadow, leisurely getting their breakfast after their all-night flight, chattering to each other in the tinkling tones which are unlike any other song-talk in bird land.
To all of which remarks Nan gave her assent; though the hop-pole took the likeness of a tall figure she had seen in the porch, the sage-bed, curiously enough, suggested a strawberry ditto, the lettuce vividly reminded her of certain vegetable productions a basket had brought, and the bob-o-link only sung in his cheeriest voice, "Go home, go home! he is there!"
He began to write rhymes when he was a very little fellow. He wanted to be a poet. He used to pray that he might be a poet. His father printed some verses of his when he was only ten years old. Bry-ant wrote many fine poems. Here are some lines of his about the bird we call a bob-o-link:
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