RED-EYED VIREO. 
Vireo olivaceus BONAPARTE. 
PLate XV. Fic. 4. 
Unwearied minstrel of the green-wood tree, 
Amid the chorus of unnumbered notes 
Raised by the birds in June, thy music floats’ 
Serene above them all. Thy melody 
Flows like the forest brook—as cheerily 
And silver clear. The joy of sweet content, 
And peace and love, are in thy rich notes blent, 
Which, while I hear, bring happiness to me. 
Would that my life might be as glad as thine— 
As full of joyous song and gratitude— 
To take contentedly each gift divine 
Of sun or cloud, and feel it to be good: 
To trust that every day its good will bring 
And with a thankful heart, like thee to sing! 
E. J. Loomis. 
N THE days of my youth the woodlands of Wisconsin appeared more imbued with 
poetry and romance than at present. The primeval forests of white-pines, beeches, 
birches, and other trees, the extensive tamarack and white-cedar swamps were scarcely 
touched by the axe of the woodsman. Then in the early spring the new settlers went 
out into the woods to tap the maple trees. The sweet sap was boiled down into syrup 
or converted into the well-known but now rather scarce maple sugar. At present the 
grand maple forests are nearly exterminated; the once beautiful tall trees look sickly 
and sapless. What has become of the aromatic wintergreen, the trailing arbutus, and 
the rich deep green club moss or ground pine, the beautiful white reticulated leaf-rosettes 
of Goodyera repens, which used to cover the ground underteath the magnificent white- 
pines of my early forest haunts? Human hands have nearly exterminated these wood- 
land beauties. The wintergreen is sought for its aromatic juice, the fragrant trailing 
arbutus during its blooming time is being torn from the ground, roots and all, and sent 
to the cities, and the club moss goes in the same direction by the cart-load for Christmas 
market. Informer days there existed grand beech forests which at times were the roost 
of millions of Passenger Pigeons. Not every year did these birds arrive: in some 
successive years many were seen, in others their number was few. Often, after an 
absence of five or more years, they came again in cloud-like masses, even obscuring the 
sunlight. Not in thousands, but in untold millions did they come. It was a grand sight, 
when in the morning the great masses separated into swarms, flying away from their 
roosts in all directions, and returning at eve in the same unbroken swarms. During 
several seasons they hatched in the forest near my parental home. The nests, of which 
large numbers often were built in a single tree, were constructed of twigs and always 
contained each but a single egg. I never have seen two eggs in a nest. How changed 
seems all now! The romantic time seems to have passed away with the Indians, the 
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