THE PERCHING BIRDS. 73 



has here, too, given a home. But we cannot think 

 of this little bird as other than all innocence. We 

 are interested in the murderer and not the murdered, 

 and that makes all the difference in the world. " How 

 shall I describe its song?" I asked of a veteran student 

 of our native birds. " Say it is like a distant flute," 

 he replied, " that because of the wind we hear at 

 brief intervals." As I listened to the bird, nearly one 

 hundred feet above the ground, I knew what he meant, 

 but do not expect these mere words will enable you 

 to recognize it. It is not interrupted and out of tune 

 like the red-eye's song, and if you hear both in the 

 village street or on the town's outskirts, you will 

 recognize them then, the one as troubled water flowing 

 over rocks, the other the quiet ripple of the meadow 

 brooks. But we at all times need sharp eyes to see 

 these little birds. Their plumage blends admirably 

 with the leaves that all summer long conceal these 

 rangers of the tree-tops ; and so stealthy and ser- 

 pent-like is their movement, rapid though it be, that 

 sharp eyes are needed to distinguish the bird from 

 that perpetual game of hide-and-seek the lights and 

 shadows play, and all the while the rippling flow of 

 music goes on, a song that greets the gray dawn in 

 the east and bids a fitting farewell to the dying day. 

 It is never pleasant to pass abruptly, or to pass at 

 all, from the contemplation of innocence to that of 

 crime ; but, as I have intimated, there is nothing 

 much but red-handed murder characteristic of insect- 

 eating birds' daily lives. They cover it over with 

 music and a sweet smile for us, but this does not 

 alter the facts one iota. These vireos are closely 

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