of the last word. Most of the songs of this family are rather
slight, but the extremest case known to me is that of the black-poll
(_Dendroeca striata_), whose _zee, zee, zee_ is almost ridiculously
faint. You may hear it continually in the higher spruce forests of the
White Mountains; but you will look a good many times before you discover
its author, and not improbably will begin by taking it for the call of
the kinglet. The music of the bay-breasted warbler is similar to the
black-poll's, but hardly so weak and formless. It seems reasonable to
believe not only that these two species are descended from a common
ancestry, but that the divergence is of a comparatively recent date:
even now the young of the year can be distinguished only with great
difficulty, although the birds in full feather are clearly enough
marked.

Warblers' songs are often made up of two distinct portions: one given
deliberately, the other hurriedly and with a concluding flourish.
Indeed, the same may be said of bird-songs generally,--those of the song
sparrow, the bay-winged bunting, and the wood thrush being familiar
examples. Yet there are many singers who attempt no climax of this sort,
but make their music to consist of two, or three, or more parts, all
alike. The Maryland yellow-throat, for instance, cries out over and
over, "What a pity, what a pity, what a pity!" So, at least, he seems to
say; though, I confess, it is more than likely I mistake the words,
since the fellow never appears to be feeling badly, but, on the
contrary, delivers his message with an air of cordial satisfaction. The
song of the pine-creeping warbler is after still another fashion,--one
simple short trill. It is musical and sweet; the more so for coming
almost always out of a pine-tree.

The vireos, or greenlets, are akin to the warblers in appearance and
habits, and like them are peculiar to the western continent. We have no
birds that are more unsparing of their music (prodigality is one of the
American virtues, we are told): they sing from morning till night,
and--some of them, at least--continue thus till the very end of the
season. It is worth mentioning, however, that the red-eye makes a short
day; becoming silent just at the time when the generality of birds grow
most noisy. Probably the same is true of the rest of the family, but on
that point I am not prepared to speak with positiveness. Of the five New
England species (I omit the brotherly-love greenlet, n