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Who's whistling so cheerfully down in the clover, When the meadows are wet with the sweet morning dew? He's piping and calling, this ardent young lover, And telling his tale the whole morning through, What is it he says in the early sunlight? |
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"Bob White! Bob White!
Bob - Bob White!" |
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At noon, when the day god in wrath has, descended, With his swift golden arrows, on grain-field and hill; And the birds of the morning their love songs have ended, Then deep in the wood, and down by the rill I hear a shrill whistle, so cheerful and bright: |
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"Wheat ripe? Bob White!
Not - not quite!" |
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When shadows of evening are lengthening slowly, Ere the night dews lie damp on the meadows again; As light breezes sweep o'er the soft grass so lowly, What is it he says? I hear the refrain, While in the thick verdure he's hid from my sight: |
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"Good night! Bob White!
Good - good night." |
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Effie L. Hallett.
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