SONG-BIRDS. Vireos 



Breeds : Through its United States range and northward. 



Nest: Cup-like, pensile in slender forked branch of maple, birch, or 



apple tree ; made of bark fibres, cobwebs, bits of paper, scraps 



of hornets' nests, etc. 

 Eggs : 3-5, usually 4, white, with brown spots on the larger end. 

 liange : Eastern North America to the Rocky Mountains, north to 



the Arctic regions. 



The Vireos are a very interesting family, which, though it 

 may be somewhat overlooked in the general spring chorus, 

 comes to the front in the latter part of May. Of the six 

 Vireos that inhabit New England, five are reasonably plenti- 

 ful, and of these the Red-eyed is the most familiar. You 

 cannot fail to name this Vireo, for he is omnipresent ; if you 

 do not see him, you hear him; if he chances to be silent, 

 which seldom happens, he peers at you witli his sparkling, 

 ruby eyes that look out between a white line and a brown 

 stripe. Wilson Flagg has forever identified him with the 

 name of the Preacher, in reference to his elocutionary 

 powers. " You see it — you know it, — do you hear me ? 

 Do you believe it ? " he hears the Vireo say, and if you 

 keep these words in your mind you will recognize the bird 

 the first time that you hear his song. 



May, June, July, and August, and still this Vireo sings 

 on ; in mid- August he does not articulate as nicely perhaps, 

 but as the month ends he has recovered his speech and 

 delivers a farewell exhortation in September. 



Four pairs nested in the garden this season, and after the 

 young had flown the parents stayed about tlie same trees, 

 singing from five in the morning on through the scorching 

 noontime — when the locust strove in vain to drone them 

 down — until sunset sometimes, never leaving the particu- 

 lar tree where they began. Not that they sit and prate in 

 a state of idleness ; — far from it, they are constantly glean- 

 ing their daily bread. This is very well for Matins and 

 Vespers, but the noon song becomes monotonous, it is in one 

 key, and there is such a thing even as too much good conver- 

 sation. At noon in summer, silence softened by the whis- 

 pering leaves is best. At such times the Vireo seems to me 



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