Bob White

There's a plump little chap in a speckled coat, And he sits on the zigzag rails remote, Where he whistles at breezy, bracing morn, When the buckwheat is ripe, and stacked is the corn: "Bob White! Bob White! Bob White!"

Is he hailing some comrade as blithe as he? Now I wonder where Robert White can be! O'er the billows of gold and amber grain There is no one in sight--but, hark again: "Bob White! Bob White! Bob White!"

Ah! I see why he calls; in the stubble there Hide his plump little wife and babies fair! So contented is he, and so proud of the same, That he wants all the world to know his name: "Bob White! Bob White! Bob White!"

--GEORGE COOPER.