58 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 



dark. So this is the key that enables me to 

 unlock the mystery. It is the white-eyed vireo 

 — a stranger which I have often heard, but have 

 never seen before. 



So different is he from other members of the 

 family, in song and action, that his relationship 

 was not at first suspected. Most of the vireos 

 have soft, pleasant voices, but this little species, 

 scarcely five inches long, is so noisy and harsh at 

 times as to lead one to believe, if the bird is not 

 seen, that the sound comes from a much larger 

 throat. 



No wonder that he appears anxious, for right 

 below where he is now piping is his home — a 

 miniature gunny-sack, suspended from the fork of 

 a slender wild-rose twig, not more than two feet 

 from the ground. 



It is a large, deep nest for so small a bird, and 

 strongly lashed to the bush with tough roots and 

 grass spears. On the outside are bits of moss 

 and a small scrap of newspaper, on which is 

 printed "Rooms to Let" — as if the builder had 

 given notice to the cow blackbirds ^ — and withes 

 of sedge, drawn tightly round and crossed as 

 bands, to keep the nest in the proper shape. 



Within the cavity, which seems to be lined 

 with no softer substance than fine grasses, are 

 four white, brown-dotted eggs. 



I look upon them with feelings akin to those of 



