nr 
124 BIRDS THROUGH AN OPERA-GLASS. 
XXXYV. 
RED-EYED VIREO. 
AMONG the songs that come through the open 
window in summer, there is one I hear when the 
midday heat has silenced nearly all the others. It 
comes from the upper branches of the trees about 
the house, and is a preoccupied warble of three 
loud, guttural notes, given with monotonous va- 
riety. In rhythm it is something like he-ha-wha 
or ha-ha-wha, or, again, he-ha-whip in rising in- 
flection, and he-ha-whee in falling cadence. 
If I go out and focus my glass on the dull- 
colored bird that moves along over the branches 
inspecting the leaves in such a business-like way, I 
discover it to be an exquisite little creature, tinted 
more delicately than the waxwing, but with much 
the same glossy look and elegant air. It is a 
slender bird, about half as large as a robin. Its 
back is olive, and its breast white, of such tints 
that when the sunlight is on the leaves our vireo 
is well disguised, for its back looks like the upper 
side of the leaf, and its breast like the under side 
with the sun on it. If the bird considerately flies 
down into the lower branches, as it turns its head 
to one side, { can make out its ash-colored cap 
and the lines that border it, — first a black one, 
then a white, and below that another black line, 
running through the eye. 
