IN THE HEMLOCKS 67 
insects, but not destitute of a certain plaintive 
cadence. It is one of the most languid, unhurried 
sounds in all the woods. I feel like reclining upon 
the dry leaves at once. Audubon says he has 
never heard his love-song; but this is all the love- 
song he has, and he is evidently a very plain hero 
with his little brown mistress. He assumes few 
attitudes, and is not a bold and striking gymnast, 
like many of his kindred. He has a preference for 
dense woods of beech and maple, moves slowly amid 
the lower branches and smaller growths, keeping 
from eight to ten feet from the ground, and repeat- 
ing now and then his listless, indolent strain. His 
back and crown are dark blue; his throat and 
breast, black; his belly, pure white; and he has a 
white spot on each wing. 
Here and there I meet the black and white creep- 
ing warbler, whose fine strain reminds me of hair- 
wire. It is unquestionably the finest bird-song to 
be heard. Few insect strains will compare with it 
in this respect; while it has none of the harsh, brassy 
character of the latter, being very delicate and tender. 
That sharp, uninterrupted, but still continued 
warble, which, before one has learned to discrim- 
inate closely, he is apt to confound with the red- 
eyed vireo’s, is that of the solitary warbling vireo, 
—a bird slightly larger, much rarer, and with a 
louder, less cheerful and happy strain. I see him 
hopping along lengthwise of the limbs, and note 
the orange tinge of his breast and sides and the 
white circle around his eye. 
