Suddenly from the dead weed stalks in the draw, where the Blackbirds had sung yesterday, there broke forth the most rollicking, tinkling, broken-up, crushed-glass kind of bird melody that he had ever heard—something in perfect accord with his mood again; and looking up he saw a flock of black and white birds all mingled in, some plain, streaked, sparrow-like kinds—the former given to the utmost abandon of music. He had seen these birds before occasionally, but he never knew their names, and now he found there was more he had not known, for he had heard the Bobolink sing for the first time.—From Baskett's "At You All's House."