The Warbling Vireo 75 



to hunt, even among the trees of so busy a 

 thoroughfare as Boston Common, an almost 

 continuous warble in the early summer in- 

 dicates that some unseen singer is hidden there ; 

 but even if you get a glimpse of the warbling 

 vireo you could not tell him from his red-eyed 

 cousin at that height. Modestly dressed, with- 

 out even a white eye-brow or wing-bars to re- 

 lieve his plain dusty olive and whitish clothes, 

 he is the least impressive member of his retiring, 

 inconspicuous family. He asks you no ques- 

 tions in jerky, colloquial triplets of song, so 

 you may know by his voice at least that he is 

 not the red-eyed vireo. Some self-conscious 

 birds, like the song sparrow, mount to a con- 

 spicuous perch before they begin to sing, as if 

 they had to deliver a distinct number on a 

 programme before a waiting audience. Not 

 so with this industrious little gleaner to whom 

 singing and dining seem to be a part of the 

 same performance — one and inseparable. He 

 sings as he goes, snatching a bit of insect food 

 between warbles. 



Although towns do not affright him, he really 

 prefers wooded border-land and clearings, es- 

 pecially where birch trees abound, when it is 

 time to rear a family. 



