as they are now.  Indeed, I never knew a female bird of any kind that did not appear utterly indifferent to the charms of voice and plumage that the male birds are so fond of displaying.  But I am inclined to believe that the males think only of themselves and of outshining each other, and not at all of the approbation of their mates, as, in an analogous case in a higher species, it is well known whom the females dress for, and whom they want to kill with envy!

I know of no other song-bird that expresses so much self-consciousness and vanity, and comes so near being an ornithological coxcomb.  The red-bird, the yellowbird, the indigo-bird, the oriole, the cardinal grosbeak, and others, all birds of brilliant plumage and musical ability, seem quite unconscious of self, and neither by tone nor act challenge the admiration of the beholder.

By the time the bobolink reaches the Potomac, in September, he has degenerated into a game-bird that is slaughtered by tens of thousands in the marshes.  I think the prospects now are of his gradual extermination, as gunners and sportsmen are clearly on the increase, while the limit of the bird’s productivity in the North has no doubt been reached long ago.  There are no more meadows to be added to his domain there, while he is being waylaid and cut off more and more on his return to the South.  It is gourmand eat gourmand, until in half a century more I expect the blithest and merriest of our meadow songsters will have disappeared before the rapacity of human throats.

But the poets have had a shot at him in good time, and have preserved some of his traits.  Bryant’s poem on this subject does not compare with his lines “To a Water-Fowl,”—­a subject so well suited to the peculiar, simple, and deliberate motion of his mind; at the same time it is fit that the poet who sings of “The Planting of the Apple-Tree” should render into words the song of “Robert of Lincoln.”  I subjoin a few stanzas:—­

ROBERT OF LINCOLN

Merrily swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink: 
Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers. 
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,
Wearing a bright black wedding-coat,
White are his shoulders and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink: 
Look what a nice new coat is mine,
Sure there was never a bird so fine. 
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife,
Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,
Passing at home a patient life,
Broods in the grass while her husband sings. 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink: 
Brood, kind creature; you need not fear
Thieves and robbers while I am here. 
Chee, chee, chee.