uggy winds blow from the north; and the
cool, refreshing breezes come from the south; and some of the wood is so
heavy that it will not float in water; and the people make tea with
dried holly leaves! But to the Band of Vagabond Bobolinks it was not
topsy-turvy, for it was home; and they found the Paraguay prairies as
well suited to the comforts of their January summer as the meadows of
the North had been for their summer of June.

Bob was satisfied. He had flown four thousand miles from a meadow and
had found a prairie! And if, in all that wonderful journey, he had not
paid over much attention to anything along the way except swamps and
marshes, do not scorn him for that. Remember always that Bob _found_ his
prairie and that Peter _found_ his shore.

It is somewhere written, "Seek and ye shall find." 'Tis so with the
children of birds--they find what Nature has given them to seek. And is
it so with the children of men? Never think that Nature has been less
kind to boys and girls than to birds. Unto Bob was given the fields to
seek, and he had no other choice. Unto Peter the shores, and that was
all. But unto us is given a chance to choose what we will seek. If it is
as far away as the prairies of Paraguay, shall we let a dauntless little
vagabond put our faith to shame? If it is as near as our next-door
meadow, shall we not find a full measure of happiness there--mixed with
the bobolink's music of June?

[Illustration: _Nature has kept faith with him and brought him safely
back to his meadow._]

For Bob comes back to the North again, bringing with him springtime
melodies, which poets sing about but no human voice can mimic. Bob, who
has dusted the dull tips from his feathers as he flew, and who, garbed
for the brightness of our June, makes a joyful sound; for Nature has
kept faith with him and brought him safely back to his meadow, though
the journey from and to it numbered eight thousand miles!

His trail is the open lane of the air,
And the winds, they call him everywhere;
So he wings him North, dear burbling Bob,
With throat aquiver and heart athrob;
And he sings o' joy in the month of June
Enough to keep the year in tune.

Then, when the rollicking young of his kind
Yearn for the paths that the vagabonds find,
He leads them out over loitering ways
Where the Southland beckons with luring days;
To wait till the laughter-like lilt of his song
Is ripe for the No