A Book on Birds 



breast is rich yellow and its back green, 

 like the tints of the frost-touched leaves; 

 its undercoverts are of that indefinable 

 hue of gray (like the shadow of an emerald) 

 which marks so strikingly the branches and 

 trunk of a buttonwood tree where the outer 

 bark has peeled off; whilst its wings are 

 made to match the blue and white of the 

 cloud-flecked sky showing high above, 

 through the foliage. 



So baffling are these harmonies of color, 

 not only with this species, but many others 

 of entirely different tints (adapted also to 

 the trees frequented by them) that these 

 charming sojourners, even when they are 

 with us in very large numbers, are as a 

 matter of fact, seen by so few people that 

 in a general way they are practically 

 unknown. When they are pointed out the 

 first time to an untrained observer he is 

 nearly always incredulous for a while — 

 declaring he can discern nothing overhead 

 but the maze of branches and twinkling 

 leaves. However, let him be but patient 

 enough to fix just one winged beauty with 



[1661 



