Bob White Days

                                                       

The smell of frost is in the air,

     The corn has turned to gold;

Bob White sends forth his lusty cry

     Across the garnered wold.

“Bob White, Bob White!” he cries again,

     “Bob White” with all his might;

While from the distance faintly sounds

     “Bob White, Bob White, Bob White.”

O blessed be the Bob White Day!

     And blessed be Bob White;

His welcome call sounds o’er the land

     From morning to the night.

The days be melancholy not

     With Bob White’s cheery call;

“Bob White, Bob White!’ his cry resounds,

     From meadow, wood and wall.

July 27, 1904

(Picture: https://www.audubon.org/sites/default/files/Northern_Bobwhite_w27-11-032_l_1.jpg)