as he joins the flock into which various families have united. He even
loses his name, and is called Reedbird, after his hiding-place. He grows
reckless and says to his brothers, 'What do we care? If we can't sing
any more, we can eat--let us eat and be merry still!' So they eat all
they can, and wax exceedingly fat; the gunners know this, and come after
them.

"Meanwhile, in southern lowlands the rice-fields, that have been hoed
and flooded with water all the season to make the grain grow, are
covered with tall stalks of rice, whose grains are not quite ripe, but
soft and milky like green corn.

"Some morning there is a great commotion on the plantation. 'The
Ricebirds have come!' is the cry--this being only another name for the
Bobolink.

"Out fly the field-hands, men, women, and children, waving sticks,
blowing horns, and firing off guns, to frighten the invaders away.
Fires are lighted by night to scare them, for the birds travel both
night and day. The Bobolinks do not stop for all this noise, though of
course a great many are shot, ending their lives inside a pot-pie, or
being roasted in rows of six on a skewer. But the rest fly on when they
are ready, leaving the United States behind them, and go through Florida
to Brazil and the West Indies.

"In spring, on the northward journey, the rice-fields suffer again. The
males are jolly minstrels once more, all black, white, and buff,
hurrying home to their nesting grounds. They think that rice newly sown
and sprouting is good for the voice, and stop to gobble it up in spite
of all objections.