Missing Bob White

“Bob White, Bib White!” I call in vain,

     O’er orchard, vale and hill;

“Bob White, Bib White!” I call again,

     But Bob White’s voice is still.

The fields of brown I wander o’er,

     And through the woodlands bare,

And call as in the days of yore –

     No Bob White answers there.

I visit too, the sunny slopes

     Where Bob, when winds blew chill

Was want to hide, but here my hopes

     Are doomed to sorrow still.

Bob White has gone, and drear the wold

     Without his cheery call;

I fear we fester winter’s cold

     And snow because his pall.

Nov. 12, ‘05

Pub. in New England

    Homestead

        July 14, 1906