Think of having "skunk-blackbird" called after a fellow when he deserved the title no more than half a dozen of his feathered friends! He could never imagine what gave him the disagreeable epithet, unless it be his own individual hatred for the animal whose name clung to him like mud. To be sure, the coat of the bird was striped, something like that of the detestable beastie; but so were the coats of many other birds, and he could never tell why he should be called a blackbird, either. True, he loved the marshes for personal reasons; but who has seen a blackbird twist its toes around a reed stalk and sing like mad? [Illustration: BOBOLINK.] So, as we said, he named himself, constituting himself a town crier on behalf of his own concerns. "Bobolink! bobolink!" As often as the blackbird attempted to talk of himself, bobolink chimed in and drowned every other note. And he kept it up for two or three months, until everybody understood that he had given himself a proper name. And each year he returns to remind the skunk and blackbird that he is no other than himself, and to assure people that he is deserving of an original name, whatever else may be said of him. But the skunk never has quite forgiven the bobolink his resentment of the name, for the ugly little creature haunts the bird in marsh and meadow, watching for the young bobolinks to get big enough for eating, exactly as the bobolink waits for the dandelion seeds to get ripe for his dinner. But dandelion seeds and little baby bobolinks are two different sorts of victuals; and father bobolink, swaying on his weed stem, wishes skunks were not so big, so he could turn on the whole family and devour them as he does the bumblebees in the next stone heap. It is of no use wishing, for the old feud between the hated animal and the coveted bird is still on. And skunk knows very well how to get the best of the bobolink. Bobolinks see better by daytime, and besides they are tired out with singing all day long, and they sleep like Christians all night. It is then, when the moon is little, and the flowers have closed their eyes, and the grass stems are growing silently in the dew, and the cicada is absorbed in the courting of his sweetheart--ah! it is then that skunk walks abroad, sniffing. Tail straight out behind, gently swaying as he goes, nose well pointed toward the nearest grass tufts, thoughts intent on supper, and alas! baby bobolinks quietly sleeping. Skunk may take in the mother as well, while she broods, she, no doubt, having a violent attack of nightmare, could she but live to tell her mate about it. Yes, indeed! poor bobolink has his trials, and he is entitled to all the sweet melody of his family to help him rise above them. When he is tired of New England polecats and takes a run down South, it is but to meet his other enemy, the opossum. And he might as well be given the name of opossum-bird--for, like the skunk, the opossum loves the still, dark night--and fat old bobolinks.