Bob White.

JUST now, beyond the turmoil and the din

Of crowded streets that city walls shut in,

I heard the whistle of a quail begin:

“Bob White! Bob White!”

So faintly and far away falling

It seemed that a dream voice was calling

“Bob White! Bob White!”

How the old sights and sounds come thronging

And thrill me with a sudden longing!

Through quiet country lanes the sunset shines.

Fence corners where the wild rose climbs and twines,

And blooms in tangled black-berry vines,

“Bob White! Bob White!”

I envy yon home-going swallow,

Oh, but swiftly to rise and follow —

Follow its flight,

Follow it back with happy flying,

Where green-clad hills are calmly lying.

Wheat fields whose golden silences are stirred

By whirring insect wings, and naught is heard

But plaintive callings of that one sweet word,

“Bob White! Bob White!”

And a smell of the clover growing

In the meadow lands ripe for mowing,

All red and white.

Over the shady creek comes sailing,

Past willows in the water trailing.

Tired heart,‘ tis but in dreams I turn my feet,

Again to wander in the ripening wheat

And hear the whistle of the quail repeat

“Bob White! Bob White!”

But oh! there is joy in the knowing

That somewhere green pastures are growing,

Though out of sight.

And the light on those church spires dying,

On the old home meadow is lying.