ld say plaintive quality, which at once
put me in mind of the goldfinch.

I have seldom been more charmed with the song of any bird than I was on
the 7th of last October with that of this same _Vireo solitarius_. The
morning was bright and warm, but the birds had nearly all taken their
departure, and the few that remained were silent. Suddenly the stillness
was broken by a vireo note, and I said to myself with surprise, A
red-eye? Listening again, however, I detected the solitary's inflection;
and after a few moments the bird, in the most obliging manner, came
directly towards me, and began to warble in the fashion already
described. He sang and sang,--as if his song could have no ending,--and
meanwhile was flitting from tree to tree, intent upon his breakfast. As
far as I could discover, he was without company; and his music, too,
seemed to be nothing more than an unpremeditated, half-unconscious
talking to himself. Wonderfully sweet it was, and full of the happiest
content. "I listened till I had my fill," and returned the favor, as
best I could, by hoping that the little wayfarer's lightsome mood would
not fail him, all the way to Guatemala and back again.

Exactly a month before this, and not far from the same spot, I had stood
for some minutes to enjoy the "recital" of the solitary's saucy cousin,
the white-eye. Even at that time, although the woods were swarming with
birds,--many of them travelers from the North,--this white-eye was
nearly the only one still in song. He, however, was fairly brimming over
with music; changing his tune again and again, and introducing (for the
first time in Weymouth, as concert programmes say) a notably fine shake.
Like the solitary, he was all the while busily feeding (birds in
general, and vireos in particular, hold with Mrs. Browning that we may
"prove our work the better for the sweetness of our song"), and one
while was exploring a poison-dogwood bush, plainly without the slightest
fear of any ill-result. It occurred to me that possibly it is our
fault, and not that of _Rhus venenata_, when we suffer from the touch of
that graceful shrub.

The white-eyed greenlet is a vocalist of such extraordinary versatility
and power that one feels almost guilty in speaking of him under the
title which stands at the head of this paper. How he would scold,
out-carlyling Carlyle, if he knew what were going on! Nevertheless I
cannot rank him with the great singers, exceptionally clever and
o