=Note.= The bobolink is an American song bird. In the spring the male is mostly black and white, while the female is streaked with yellowish brown. In midsummer the male bobolink molts, taking on “plain brown” plumage like that of his “Quaker wife.” In the spring he regains his black and buff colors without molting any feathers. He sings only in the spring. The bobolink makes long migrations extending from Canada to Paraguay, and in the late autumn collects in large flocks which feed in the rice fields of the South, where he is known as the _ricebird_, or _reedbird_. =Discussion.= 1. Read the lines that imitate the song of the bobolink. 2. Describe the dress of Robert of Lincoln and that of his “Quaker wife.” 3. How does her song differ from his? 4. What are the work and the care that make him silent? 5. How does the poet account for the change in his appearance as the season advances? 6. Where does he go for winter? When will he come again? =Phrases= prince of braggarts, 40, 12 chip the shell, 40, 28 bestirs him well, 40, 30 summer wanes, 41, 15 humdrum crone, 41, 17 pipe that merry old strain, 41, 21 THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT HENRY VAN DYKE From _Poems of Henry van Dyke_; copyright 1897, 1911, by Charles Scribner’s Sons. By permission of the publishers. While May bedecks the naked trees With tassels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream, I hear a voice that seems to say, Now near at hand, now far away, “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_” An incantation so serene, So innocent, befits the scene: There’s magic in that small bird’s note— See, there he flits—the Yellow-Throat; A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, A spark of light that shines and sings “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_” You prophet with a pleasant name, If out of Mary-land you came, You know the way that thither goes Where Mary’s lovely garden grows; Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, And try to call her down this way, “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_” Tell her to leave her cockle-shells, And all her little silver bells That blossom into melody, And all her maids less fair than she. She does not need these pretty things, For everywhere she comes, she brings “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_” The woods are greening overhead, And flowers adorn each mossy bed; The waters babble as they run— One thing is lacking, only one: If Mary were but here today, I would believe your charming lay, “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_” Along the shady road I look— Who’s coming now across the brook? A woodland maid, all robed in white— The leaves dance round her with delight, The stream laughs out beneath her feet—, Sing, merry bird, the charm’s complete, “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_” NOTES AND QUESTIONS