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Updated: August 29, 2024
As Whistling Dick picked his way where night still lingered among the big, reeking, musty warehouses, he gave way to the habit that had won for him his title. Subdued, yet clear, with each note as true and liquid as a bobolink's, his whistle tinkled about the dim, cold mountains of brick like drops of rain falling into a hidden pool.
As long as June days come and the bobolink's song "runs down, a brook of laughter, through the air"; as long as a few scholars are content to sit in the old garret with the old books, and close the books, at times, to think of old friends; as long as the memory of brave boys makes the "eyes cloud up for rain"; as long as Americans still cry in their hearts "O beautiful, my country!" the name of James Russell Lowell will be remembered as the inheritor and enricher of a great tradition.
There came a queer, whizzing noise, like water squirting from the end of a nozzle; which was exactly what it was, and hot water in the bargain, not actually scalding, but of such a temperature to make a fellow wince, if it happened to sprinkle over-his face. It was all Bobolink's idea. He had brought a little garden pump aboard during the afternoon, with the hose that went with it.
"We'll keep still until we know where the noise comes from." Mr. Catbird winced. He was not used to hearing anybody speak of his singing as "noise." And he made up his mind that he would sing a song in Bobby Bobolink's best manner. So again he opened his mouth. He hadn't sung half a dozen notes before Bobby Bobolink's wife gave a shrill scream. "Oh, dear!" she cried. "That's a terrible noise.
You can see them sitting up on their haunches watching the train as it carries you over the great plains. =Bobolink= The birds of the open are varied and many. Most of the forest birds are seen occasionally in the fields, but some birds make their homes in the open. You will find the bobolink's nest in a hay-field or down among the red clover.
The nest of the desert-lover is a slight depression in the barren earth, nothing more; and the eggs harmonize with their surroundings in color. The whole is concealed by its very openness, and as hard to find, as the bobolink's cradle in the trackless grass of the meadow.
And then there'll be nothing left of you except a cloud of feathers!" FOR once Bobby Bobolink's heart seemed to come right up into his mouth. Usually he never let anything dash his high spirits. If matters didn't go exactly as they should with him he would laugh and say that probably they would be different to-morrow. And more likely than not he would burst into the jolliest song he knew.
If it is as near as our next-door meadow, shall we not find a full measure of happiness there mixed with the bobolink's music of June? For Bob comes back to the North again, bringing with him springtime melodies, which poets sing about but no human voice can mimic.
But Bobby Bobolink told him that that wasn't what he meant. "I'm afraid," he explained, "my wife may not consent!" IT had never occurred to Mr. Meadowlark that Bobby Bobolink's wife might object to her husband's joining the Singing Society. But Bobby seemed doubtful. "I'll have to ask her," he said. "You see, we're just about to build ourselves a house.
Then he will swing away into the air and run down the wind, gurgling music without stint over the unheeding tussocks of meadow-grass and dark clumps of bulrushes that mark his domain. We have no bird whose song will match the nightingale's in compass, none whose note is so rich as that of the European blackbird; but for mere rapture I have never heard the bobolink's rival.
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