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His voice was not anywhere near the right pitch for a bobolink's song, but that made no difference. Link, link, bobolink! he kept on singing from morning till night. "Toby did not mind knitting, but he did not like to make the soup. It had never seemed to him to be a man's work, and besides, it hurt his old, rheumatic back to bend over the soup-kettle.
When Timothy heard Bobby Bobolink's song ringing through the swamp he hurried as fast as he could toward the place where it seemed to come from. Timothy did that, not because he wanted to hear the singing better, but because he had something to say to the singer. He wanted to tell him to keep still.
He said old hunters and cowboys always slept that way when camping in the open. Paul was awakened by feeling something nudging him in the ribs. It was Bobolink's elbow; and, thinking at first that it might be an accident, the scout master made no move. But again he received a severe jolt. And at the same time came a whisper close in his ear: "Paul! Are you awake?"
He claimed that he simply had to have quiet. And there was no such thing, with Bobby Bobolink around. One odd thing marked Bobby Bobolink's flights. He never flew in a straight course, as old Mr. Crow did, but darted this way and that, crossing and turning and wheeling, until it seemed sometimes to onlookers that he was sure to skid into a tree and meet with an accident.
He had intended to sing one of Bobby's songs a few times, until they were puzzled; and then he had expected to dash out of the bush where he was hiding and have a good laugh with Mr. and Mrs. Bobolink. But somehow his plans were turning out all wrong. "What shall I do?" Mr. Catbird groaned. "Here I've gone and frightened Bobby Bobolink's wife! Something's the matter with my voice.
Among our own birds, there is the song of the hermit thrush for devoutness and religious serenity; that of the wood thrush for the musing, melodious thoughts of twilight; the song sparrow's for simple faith and trust, the bobolink's for hilarity and glee, the mourning dove's for hopeless sorrow, the vireo's for all-day and every-day contentment, and the nocturne of the mockingbird for love.
The notes came tumbling so quickly one upon another that most of the members of the Singing Society began to look bewildered. Bobby Bobolink's singing was almost too fast for even their sharp ears. He hadn't sung long before somebody interrupted him. Somebody called in a loud voice, "I object!" It was Buddy Brown Thrasher that spoke. Bobby Bobolink stopped short in the middle of his song.
And they thought him the merriest harum-scarum they had ever known. He was even cheerful to look at, too. For with every bright day that passed, Bobby Bobolink's dress took on a gayer hue.
Bobolink and their five children trailing after him. It was the quickest move you ever saw if you had only seen it! In a few minutes they were settled in the swamp. And to Bobby Bobolink's relief his wife declared that she liked their new home, because it was in a good damp place and there was plenty of good water to drink.
The soaring sky was filled with shining clouds, the tinkle of the bobolink's fairy bells rose from the meadow, a mystical sheen was on the odorous grass and waving grain, but no splendor of cloud, no grace of sunset could conceal the poverty of these people, on the contrary they brought out, with a more intolerable poignancy, the gracelessness of these homes, and the sordid quality of the mechanical daily routine of these lives.
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