"Listen, Phyllis, and I will tell you all about it.
"It was about the middle of May when my brothers and I started north. All winter long we had wandered through the rice-fields of the South.
"We were not happy there. We feared for our lives. There we are not called bobolinks and the people of the South never listen for our songs.
"In fact we seldom sing when we are in the South. The hunters call us 'rice-birds' or 'reed-birds.' With their terrible guns they hunt us early and late.
"It was no wonder, then, that we were so glad to return to the North. It was a long journey, but we did not tire. In fact we travelled mostly at night. During the day we feasted in the fields or at grain stacks.
"For a few days we flew about here, and sang out our names to every passer-by.
"Just ten days after our arrival something very wonderful happened. Our sisters and wives and sweethearts came with fluttering wings and sweet, quiet ways.
"On that very day I met the lovely bird who now broods so gently over our eggs.
"She seemed to me the most beautiful bobolink that ever was. Early and late I sang to her. My most beautiful songs seemed not half good enough for so lovely a bird.
"I, alas, was not the only bobolink who admired her. My own brother was quite as delighted with her. He, too, sang to her.