“Let others do as they must, but we, who have no rice to be hurt, insist that this bit of ardent, flying melody shall receive the treatment that his music deserves, and be taken forever off the list of semigame-birds. What if this singer of the opera does choose to don a sober travelling cloak and journey silently? The musician is only waiting for the pink blossoms to come on the apple trees, and the grass to grow long enough to sway to the wind, to again let his music float from the one and give his nest to the care of the other, where no human eye, at least, may spy it. If we destroy Robert of Lincoln, called Bobolink for short, we kill not one but many qualities and songs. Did you never hear the rhyme of his merry family?”
THE O’LINCOLN FAMILY
A flock of merry singing-birds were sporting in a grove;
Some were warbling cheerily and some were making love.
There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, Conquedle,—
A livelier set were never led by tabor, pipe, or fiddle:—
Crying “Whew, shew, Wadolincon; see, see, Bobolincon
Down among the tickle tops, hiding in the buttercups;
I know the saucy chap; I see his shining cap
Bobbing there in the clover,—see, see, see!”